Rhey

For a moment you forget the animosity you have against boys. The memory of your brother dejected and purposely isolating himself last year rings clearly in your mind. Your family had left your town of Castrum Kremnos and moved to the more populated city of Okhema to get a fresh start, especially because of the grief caused by your father. However, this also meant that Mydei would be leaving his friends.

Hephaestion, Leonnius, Perdikkas, Ptolemy, Peucesta.

Though you have not had many interactions with them, you knew they were good friends and meant a lot to your brother, even if he didn't want to admit it. A dull ache lingered within your household despite moving to the free and prosperous Okhema.

So you decide to give this mystery boy a pass.

Your tablet flashes, signaling low battery, and suddenly you realize the predicament you're about to be in. Shit. You left your charger with Mydei after his broke, so now you have to go in his room to ask for it.

Did you really have to go in? Your mind goes back and forth between saving your tablet and staying in your room and waiting it out. Looking back in your room, avoiding interacting with the mystery boy and your stinky brother seemed really tempting. You had hobbies! You could definitely find something else to pass the time. But a part of you can't help but be curious, and before you know it, your feet were dragging you to Mydei's room.

You walk as lightly as you could, trying not to alert them of your existence before you were ready to go in. The door was half open, and you hear the low murmur of their voices, along with the electronic sounds effects of what seemed to be punches or shooting. You gulp, overthinking of whether Mydei would even hear you over the video game noises. You knock anyway.

"Yeah?" Mydei's voice calls out. You breath a sigh of relief- at least he heard you. You grab your nonexistent courage and push the door to enter. Keeping your head down, your footsteps hover lightly on his floor as if you were sneaking in. And then your breath catches in your throat.

The mystery boy- A boy sits on the edge of Mydei's bed beside him with a controller loosely in his hand. He looks up at you the same time your brother does, and you get a full glimpse of his face. He was sitting, but he looked around the same height and age as Mydei. White messy hair framing his face, bright blue eyes, and an even brighter smile. Why was he smiling at you?

And was that the scent of wheat?

Your brain barely catches up to the overload of the mystery boy, but Mydei fortunately snaps you out of your trance.

"What do you want?" Mydei's voice is curt and straight to the point as always. You catch the mystery boy stifling a laugh, nudging your brother and whispering something like "how gentle", to which your brother nudges him back subtly. You don't know why but you feel self conscious all of a sudden.

"I-I need the charger." You mutter. Ew. You become aware of how awkward your voice comes out.

"It's on the desk." Mydei replies, quickly focusing back on the video game. You cringe. The desk? The one all the way across the room? Where you'd have to pass this weird smiley boy? Your anti-social self loathes this, and you wish you could cuss at Mydei for not getting the message but alas there is a guest. 

Men. They certainly stress women out. Even your own brother.

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you swiftly cross your brother's bed to snatch the charger. Okay, you did it, just quickly in and quickly out, easy right-

"Hey."

The white haired mystery boy calls out to you, and you flinch like those cartoon robbers caught in the police lights.

"I'm Phainon." He says with a smile. "Do you wanna play with us?"

Your pupils dart quickly between the boys and Mydei's TV, where some sort of FPS game was paused. The thought crosses your mind so fast, you almost flinch in disgust at the thought of playing this violent video game with boys. Yuck!

"I- what?" You grimace, though it comes out meek. Phainon only continues smiling, lifting his controller to gesture at the game.

"We're about to enter a lobby, you can join us if you like." Phainon only continues smiling, lifting his controller to gesture at the game. The invite makes your heart beat faster- though you're not sure if you should be flattered or weirded out that you're being included. Mydei seems to voice the latter.

"Why would we do that?" Mydei's words come out blunt as usual, though you don't fault him for it because you also couldn't find a reason to join them, especially when you didn't really enjoy your brother's video games. More importantly, you felt like it was gonna be awkward.

"Um, I'm okay. I don't really like shooter games." You reply, slowly backing off with the charger in hand. Weirdly, Phainon perks up more, still talking to you.

"Then we could play something else. Do you like Mario Kart? Or Party?" Phainon suggests. You and Mydei both give him a grimace like true siblings.

"We don't have to include my sister in everything." Mydei says. From the way he said it, you felt like Mydei briefly told Phainon about you, which doesn’t help with your face burning at the thought of being mentioned.

"I-It's fine, really. You guys play." You say, taking the last word to finally exit. You're at the threshold of Mydei's doorway when Phainon steals the last word, calling out one last thing.

"Maybe next time then."

You almost flinch again, your steps abruptly stopping, and shit. It signalled that you heard him, so now you had to answer. You slowly turn, putting on a smile.

"Yeah... sure." Your answer wasn't confident, and you realize you might have come off as fake- like you were putting on a customer-service smile with an empty promise.

And yet, Phainon- this smiling boy, continues to beam at you like he actually believed you.

You don't trust yourself to not embarrass yourself any further with that interaction, so you you quickly pull your brother's door closed and retreat back to the safety of your room. You sit on your bed, charger clearly forgotten and your posture rigid as a soldier as you reflect on what the hell just happened.

Your heart was beating too fast. Too fast, but... not for a boy, right? 

It's ridiculous, you think. Phainon was the guest here- a stranger. There was a supposed to be a sense that playing video games with them was some sort of uncharted territory when he was your brother's friend. But it’s like it has been reversed. 

You've met boys before, obviously in your elementary school. They were smelly, mean, and dumb... loud, reckless, and careless... Yet Phainon was strangely not like them. And you were sure as hell knew that none of them ever looked at you like that- like it was normal for you to be there, or that it made sense for you to join. You press your palms to your face, as if wiping it would get rid of your overcomplicated thoughts.

This is so stupid.

Somehow, you get the feeling that you weren't going to forget him.

A few hours later, you realize you actually aren't going to forget the boy. Especially when you find him setting up the dinner table.

Your mother called you and Mydei down that evening for dinner, and you pause for a moment in the hallway as you see the white haired boy still here. You caught a glimpse of him just washing his hands, meaning he was definitely staying to eat. He answers your mother with a cheerful "yes ma'am!" and you make a face- both at the thought of Phainon joining your family for dinner, and the fact that he just called your mother "ma'am".

Your mother calls you and Mydei to set the table as usual. You realize how giddy Phainon looked as you saw him from the corner of your eye, sleeves rolled up and posture upright like he was ready for your mother’s cooking. He suddenly realizes you too.

"Oh, hi again." Phainon's eyes blink at you as he turns away from drying his hands.

"Hi..." You quietly nod to him, and he smiles at you again. By this point, you felt that he could probably tell that you were weirded out by him a little- being a guest and all yet being so comfortable with people he just met. You don't even remember the last time you were comfortable in your own skin. And yet here you were, standing awkwardly at your own dinner table in your own house, while this random boy acts like he belonged here all this time.

For once you latch onto the task of setting the table gratefully, busying yourself with forks and knives in order to not to pay the obvious elephant in the room any mind. You definitely don't realize the way he kept glancing over, and you certainly don't realize how he pulled your chair out for you.

Once dinner was set, your family takes their seat and starts on a nice home-cooked meal. Your mother gets curious and starts asking Phainon questions, since she too realized this was the first friend Mydei brought home. You keep your head down mostly, as you weren't really a part of this conversation. Funny enough, Mydei stays quiet too. Birds of a feather you were.

"How long have you two been friends?" Your mother asks towards your brother and Phainon. Though of course, Phainon takes the lead and answers.

"Since the beginning of the school year. Mydei has been helping me with studying for history." Phainon beams, his head nudging towards Mydei to acknowledge him. "He's really good in that class."

Mydei grumbles something unintelligible in response. It's weird... weird how Phainon's praise for your brother warms your heart. You knew that your brother was good at history, that much was true. But nobody was perfect (and as his sister, you knew firsthand of Mydei's particularly annoying traits such as his attitude). Phainon goes on about how he met Mydei from how he admired Mydei's competitiveness in gym class, but Mydei of course mistaken it for rivalry. You internally cringe at the thought of more boys being over competitive in sports.

Still, the sound of Phainon talking about your brother like he was perfect was... different somehow, genuine- even though that wasn't part of the question your mother was asking. You poke mindlessly at your food, a small smile slipping out as you recognize the hidden weight behind Phainon's polite answers.

Your mom continues to pester Phainon and Mydei with questions, with Phainon answering and your brother contributing the bare minimum. At one point you swear you see your mother rolling her eyes fondly at Mydei's lack of answer. You knew she likely shared the same sentiment as you- thinking how your brother was secretly happy for making a new friend.

"What grade are you going to?" Phainon's voice interrupts your thoughts, and you blink up, realizing that he was suddenly talking to you.

"Oh- eighth..."

"Eighth? Cool. Are you looking forward to high school?"

"I don't know..."

"That's okay. I think high school is gonna be fun! What's your favourite subject?"

"Um, art."

"That's awesome." Phainon says it like he actually means it, which makes your grip on your fork tighten. "Do you draw a lot?"

"Yeah I guess..."

"What kind of stuff do you draw?" Holy moly. You start cringing more, feeling some sort of embarrassment as Phainon presses on with the questions. He really wasn't letting this conversation go.

"Um... just things..." You shrug. You’re not really sure you want to say out loud that you draw silly anime characters at the dinner table. There's a pause, where Phainon just nods at you. It's like deja vu, where you expected the talk to end here. And yet-

"I'd like to see them sometime." He says, smiling. Your heart seems to catch on to the deja vu, doing that strange little jump again like before.

You don't understand it.

You don't understand why he wants to know more about you, or why he's being so polite, or why he keeps trying to include you, or why he's smiling so much. Why it ironically feels physically hard for you to look him in the eye. Going to a friend's house for the first time is typically awkward, is it not? But nothing seemed difficult for Phainon. In fact, everything seemed relatively easy for him.

Dinner continues with your brother and Phainon bantering and bickering like boys do while your mother smiles fondly. Once you finish, you walk quickly back to your room, wanting to be back in the safety within your walls, where you will not be bothered by some stinky-

“Hey!” Phainon calls out to you, and you flinch, stopping in your tracks. His footsteps pad across the floor, with Mydei silently beside him. “I still don’t know your name.”

“It’s (Y/N)…” You reply softly. You would think that your brother would have introduced you, but alas there he stands, anti-social and nonchalant like all boys try to be. Well, almost all boys.

“Well (Y/N), do you wanna play Mario Party with us?” There was the question again, but rephrased with your name with the addition of a more family friendly video game. He was purposely trying to include you, wasn’t he? You pause for a moment, thinking. Phainon grins, pressing on. “Your brother told me that you need help unlocking a minigame in the two versus two mode.”

“But there’s three of us…”

“Yeah. It can be me and you versus Mydei.” Phainon remarks casually. Before you could quirk an eyebrow at the strange pairing, Phainon continues. “Your brother already claimed he would still win.”

And it’s strange, you think. How the stars are perfectly aligning, so much so that it almost seems suspicious. Something prickles at your pride. Mydei has always been competitive with you, but to be honest, playing Mario Party with your brother has started getting boring. Here Phainon was, offering a fresh perspective by fueling Mydei’s competitive spirit and wanting you to join.

You blink blankly at your brother. “…You wouldn’t win partnered with an AI.”

“Yeah? Wanna bet?” Mydei growls immediately after. It earns a chuckle from Phainon, as he gets a first hand experience of you and Mydei being essentially the same person, and furthermore a glimpse of your own sarcasm against your brother. Phainon looks over at you, beaming.

“So, what do you say?”

You look at the boy, whose posture remains hopeful that you would join. Your stomach fluttered again- why? At this point you realize how bad it would be if you declined him again like you subtly dismissed him before. But he was... intelligent, you think. Intelligent in how he phrased his words.

"Partners?"

Phainon is already pushing Mydei's door open like he owned the place (while the real tenant grimaces). His other hand is outstretched to you, and somehow you see the change now. The invite was no longer a push, but a sign of him waiting. This was weird. He's too warm... too-

"Yeah." Before you knew it, a smile slowly spreads on your face, and you take his hand. He somehow lights up even more, giggling with you as he tugs you into Mydei's room, with the shared goal of beating your brother. 

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Age: 15

Two years ago was when you’d say you officially became friends with Phainon: That day he was first invited to your house by Mydei.

You remember playing Mario Party with the boys, which turned into a whole marathon of video games. But you also ended up learning about Phainon. How he actually lives very far from school, in the countryside of Aedes Elysiae. Little things like how he wanted a video game console, but found it useless if he no one to play with- hence why he was so excited to get the invite from Mydei to play video games at your house.

As you finally come into your own in high school, you don't freeze up anymore whenever Phainon comes over. He’s starting to get taller and his voice has lowered, but you barely realize it because of how often you see him. However, there was still the notion that Phainon was more of Mydei’s friend than he was yours. They were classmates first after all, but now that you knew him better, you felt like being in his presence more. 

"Mydei, I need help with homework." You blurt out as you dump your bag on the couch as you come home. Mydei and Phainon were already there, sitting at the dining table, heads buried in their notebooks. Mydei clicks his tongue.

"What homework?" Your brother grumbles, already dreading your request and dramatically setting his pencil down. Phainon peers over at you behind him.

"Trig stuff." You reply casually. Mydei lets out a groan.

"No."

"What?!" You shout, immediately getting defensive. In times like these, you're reminded how obnoxious your brother is. Not that you ever forgot. "I have a quiz soon."

"I'm busy studying for my own test. Figure it out yourself." Mydei says. You catch the subtle sound of Phainon snickering behind your brother, and you get suspicious of whether he was laughing at you. Little do you know, the white haired boy caught a glimpse of Mydei's notes- messy and full of frustrated scribbles, because he too was struggling with trig stuff. Of course, he didn't want to admit it.

"Mydei, please. You're not saying no because you suck at trig too right?"

"No, I'm not." Mydei replies curtly. It was a lie of course. Again- birds of a feather you and Mydei were... both struggling with maths. You thought you could at least rely on your brother since he had at least a year of experience. But still, he waves you off. "Ask someone else."

You were about to open your mouth to argue, when-

"I can help." Phainon leans out for you to see him, offering his services easily. A beat of silence goes by until you and your brother both shout what?! without any shame.

What was it you said earlier? You don't freeze up anymore whenever Phainon comes over?

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle again, and you start feeling self conscious... like when you were thirteen meeting Phainon for the first time. Your notebook and past quiz that were prepared in your hands, slowly hide themselves behind you as if to back off. You knew your notes were messy- maybe even more than your brother's. But worst of all, your equations were half finished, red marks on your previous quiz with see me after class as the cherry on top.

You really don't want Phainon seeing this.

“I-It’s fine… I don’t want to bother you guys.” You try slowly backing away, hoping the boys would get the message that you changed your mind. Phainon only continues to smile, disregarding your stance.

"It's okay. I don't mind." He shrugs, already walking to the other side of the dining table so you could sit next to him. Shit.

Your brother rolls his eyes, seeing this as a sign for him to leave and study in peace. Wait, Mydei- He wasn't supposed to leave you alone with Phainon! He's so stupid!

"Whatever, I’m going somewhere else to work. Just don't fail her." Mydei glares one last time before dragging his stuff into his room and slamming his door like a princess, leaving you alone with Phainon.

"I won't." Phainon says simply, his arm resting on the back of the chair. He looks up at you, who was still standing there, and you flinch.

"Do you wanna come over here?" He asks. Your cheeks go warm at his... gentleness. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but there was a tiny part of his voice that sounded like he was teasing you. Still, you walk over, stiff as cardboard as you awkwardly sit in the chair next to him with your disappointing notes in hand. Immediately, you become aware of how close Phainon was, so you unconsciously shift your chair a little further from him, purposely distancing yourself. An awkward silence occurs for a good minute, until Phainon notices something and laughs quietly, looking at you.

“...What?” You stammer, your pupils flickering back and forth between him and the floor.

“Hm?” Phainon tilts his head as if he was an innocent puppy, though you knew he was far from innocent. Did he have to keep staring at you like that?

“What are you looking at?” You ask almost curtly, attempting to shoo him away.

“What am I looking at?” Phainon repeats your question with a knowing grin. 

God, why did Phainon have to be so stupid? He truly didn’t know the effect he had on you- making you forget how to speak despite him coming over to your home for years and teetering off embarrassing yourself whenever he spares you a little glance.

But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? It wasn’t just a small glance to you. 

Things like going the extra mile to help you with something you struggled with, being persistent in including you… Realistically, it didn’t mean anything special but oh, at the same time it definitely did. Why else did you start staring at the mirror for longer, wondering if you should fix your hair a little before going down? Why else would you think about changing into something that makes you look less like a bum? It was a little crazy now that you think about it. Mydei would definitely say something about it for sure. Something like “Why the fuck did you change your clothes when we’re in our own house?” to which was a valid argument- one that you didn’t want to have. So you usually end up doing nothing, but overthinking it anyway.

Phainon speaks again, seeing as you’ve seem to have gone silent for some reason. Thankfully, it stops your intrusive thoughts, but in turn makes your cheeks heat up a little.

“I’m looking at you because you’re sitting so far from me.” Phainon’s mouth curves upwards, his tongue teasingly between his teeth. He gives a playful pout. “Are you scared of me?”

You watch as Phainon grin turns into a playful pout. You realize what he meant with you sitting all the way at the end, accusing you of avoiding him or something.

Still, you deny it. “N-No…”

“Well then-“ Phainon lets out a soft grunt, and you get a little startled when you notice his foot hooking through the leg of your chair to bring you closer. That home-y scent of wheat wafts through your nose as soon as he got you where he wants. 

"Okay, show me what you've got." He says. You cringe, still cosplaying as cardboard as you slowly slide your embarrassing notes and past quiz over. He looks it over silently, and you hold your breath.

"Hey," Phainon looks at you with a certain softness, something you definitely weren't expecting after your atrocious quiz score. "This isn't bad."

"I-It's not...?" You think he's making fun of you. Phainon shakes his head with a smile.

"No. To be honest I struggled with trig identities too. I think you're overthinking it, let me show you how I did it..."

Phainon teaches you how to approach the math questions you struggled on, and you start questioning whether he was lying about struggling on this too. From how he was explaining it to you, it's like he never struggled at all.

Then again, the only tutor you've known is your brother, so your standards are pretty low.

It's somewhat hard to concentrate as Phainon points out certain things and watches you do questions. He's close- really close. He's leaning towards you. Your shoulders would be brushing if you hadn't purposely leaned away. It was so much so that you notice the little crease in his brows and the way he bites his lip when he's concentrating.

"See? You're getting it."

What was this...? It’s literally just Phainon. Your heart starts doing those stupid little flips again, but you’re not sure if it’s just your brain mistaking it as nostalgia. Because it was the same way he was kind and patient with you two years ago. The same way he stayed for you at your dinner table despite you being difficult. The same way the smell of his hometown consumed you. The same way he continued to smile at you like it costs him nothing.

"What?" Phainon asks, softly glancing at you. You snap out of your trance and realize you were staring at him- daydreaming. How embarrassing.

"N-Nothing." You reply too quickly, ducking your head. Still, your eye flits back to him to peek, and he was smiling anyway. A warm feeling courses through your body, and you suddenly feel extremely comfortable. An idea comes up. "Can you help me with my English essay after?"

Phainon laughs, indulging you. "You need help with that? I thought your brother would be better with words."

You make a face at him, thinking, since when Mydei was good with poetry?

"You know- words like fuck and dumbass." Phainon clarifies. You laugh, realizing he was being sarcastic.

"That's exactly why I need help." You explain, and Phainon chuckles with a nod. 

While you were being tutored, you shyly asked him why the heck he was even doing this- why he was willingly tutoring you when he had his own things to do, and didn’t have to in the first place. He only smiled a little, saying, “I like helping you.” You sputtered, exasperated as you questioned him, not being able to wrap your head around why that was a valid reason. But the implication was forgotten because he just made things easy for you. It doesn’t pass Phainon’s mind, but to be honest, he didn’t mind.

At some point, your eyes start drooping and getting heavier. Your textbook and notebook pages get blurrier. You feel your neck giving up on you, making your head lurch forward a few times. 

“You falling asleep?” A soft voice whispers in your ear. 

“No…” Even the dullness of your tone betrays you. 

Phainon chuckles, and you get a little embarrassed. No, you cannot fall asleep at this point. Not when Phainon was right beside you. What if you drooled? Or snored? Mydei was always complaining about your snoring, and even though you were in denial, you get self conscious at what could happen. You force your eyelids open, but they only get heavy once more. 

Before you knew it, your head fell to rest on a squishy pillow. The pillow briefly shakes beneath your cheek just before you passed out. How embarrassing- you eventually did use him as a pillow. You need to get up, but you don’t. It was mostly because you were tired, but perhaps a teensy tiny part of it was because you never wanted to leave.

You were drifting deeply into dreamland for who knows how long, and by how soundly you were sleeping, it seemed like you never wanted to wake up. That is, until something soft taps at your shoulder. Your eyes don’t really open until the tap happens a second time. 

“There you are.” A soft chuckle reaches your ears, and you finally realize the predicament you were in. 

The first thing you saw was Phainon, and you realized that he was sitting much closer than expected, and close enough that you could make out the little crinkle in the corner of his eyes as he smiled down at you.

“Hi.” He says again, softly greeting you, seeing as you haven’t fully woken up. Your brain seemed to be blissfully empty in this moment, simply savouring the view without informing your body to move. It doesn’t last long though, since Phainon slowly tries to extract himself from you without jostling you too much. “Was my lesson really that boring?”

You don’t even have the energy to respond, your eyes barely opening, though you hear Phainon’s voice fading in and out.

“I have to go now. (Y/n)-” Phainon chuckles sheepishly as he attempts to pull his sleeve caught from under your weight. “(Y/n), you need to wake up for me. Your brother’s gonna get mad at me again.”

“Mmph- y-you’re leaving now?” You suddenly scramble to fix your hair, sitting up properly to look at Phainon who was already reaching for his jacket. He turns back to you with a smile.

“It’s late.” He simply says. And he was right. As you looked outside, you could see the sky already pitch black. Just how long were you out for? What time did you fall asleep? Did you really lay on Phainon’s shoulder for that long? The thought makes you blush. You glance down at your forgotten trig homework, and see a bunch of sticky notes written with arrows and small notes for each question.

“Oh.”

Phainon seems to notice the mortification slowly creeping on your face at your brilliant response. He laughs under his breath. 

“I’ve written down some notes for the last few questions you had. I hope they’re helpful in some way.” Phainon seems to be in deep contemplation, like he was thinking back to his notes and hoped they sufficed. He decides not to overthink it or potentially stress you out even more. So he smiles and waves, heading towards your door. “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight…” You managed to squeak as he left. 

As your front door clicks shut, you collapse forwards on the table, simply staring at your scattered homework in silence. The living room felt strangely warm despite Phainon having already left. The scent of wheat lingered, his presence lingered, the half empty bowl of snacks, the blanket draped over you and the armrest. The feeling of his shoulder beneath your cheek. 

Mydei casually walks down the stairs, his eyes flickering between the door and you, and you flinch. He leans forward on the table, looking down at you with the same arms-crossed, unreadable expression on his face. Though it was the same perpetual look of mild judgment he always gave, this time you felt like he could be suspecting something else.

“What…?” You say with a hint of attitude in your tone, side-eyeing your brother who clearly had something on his mind. You hated when Mydei did this. 

“Nothing.” Mydei shrugs, reaching forward for the now stale popcorn. The silence continued to stretch, making you uneasy. “...Were you sleeping on his shoulder?”

“I- No…“ Smooth.

Mydei’s eyes narrow at you, getting skeptical from your very convincing answer. Fortunately, he scoffs and doesn’t address the secret you thought he was going to, but unfortunately, he decides he’s not going without a jab at you. “God, sleep on your bed next time.” 

Your eyes widen in embarrassment, realizing that Mydei did indeed catch you sleeping on his best friend’s shoulder.

“S-Shut up Mydei!” You knowing he was teasing you for drooling on Phainon’s shoulder. 

Mydei doesn’t even breaking eye contact with you. His gaze remains fixed, blinking blankly like he’s expecting something yet also wanting to ask something. You’re caught between deciding to stay silent or throwing another pillow because you knew he was teetering off pointing out a certain something between you and Phainon. Why couldn’t you talk to your brother about other things? Trying to have a normal conversation with Mydei was like trying to argue with a brick wall that occasionally made blunt remarks and observations about your life. 

“You seem happy.”

You stared at Mydei, your heart skipping beats- though you weren’t sure if it was because you were anxious or the fluttery feeling of actually admitting what Mydei was likely referencing. The thing about having a sibling was that you would be fluent in their lies, but the biggest problem was that they would be fluent in yours too.

Because later that night, after denying everything to Mydei which you were sure sounded suspicious- you realized the thought had finally taken shape.

Fuck. You looked forward to seeing him. And it’s not like you haven’t, but after months of avoiding the question altogether, you slowly started to come to the terrible conclusion that your heart was craving his presence. There was no way you were going to get rid of the thought since you acknowledged it.  

You knew Phainon didn’t come here to tutor you, and he too had work of his own and things to study for. Phainon had stayed. And even though you made him explain the concept four times, and continued cringing over trying not to break over trigonometry, your previous feelings of thinking you were a bother eventually seemed to disappear. He was patient with you, and never sounded annoyed, which in turn ruined your life in the way that you never stopped thinking about this moment. 

You felt like you could depend on him comfortably without judgement or impatience. And he would let you take up as much of his time as you asked him for. 

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Age: 17

Ever since that night when Phainon helped you with your homework, you felt like you could be more carefree around him. Before, Phainon was just Mydei’s friend. Just a boy, who was annoyingly good at everything and nice in a casual way that easily made people gravitate towards him.

At seventeen years old, you think you know better. You were an adult, applying to universities, and thinking about careers.

You think you've matured. Which is why crushing on Phainon feels childish now.

You've admitted it internally in your head, that you've had a crush on him. A baby one at least. Over the years, you've watched him grow and you considered him a friend like your brother did. But somewhere throughout the multiple times he came over to your house, you found yourself finding every part of him attractive. It wasn’t your fault though, that he hasn't stopped with his whole golden boy persona. He was good at everything, liked by everyone, and fine, you'll admit he's cute. But he's eighteen now, already graduated and in university. So, you start seeing less of him.

And because you've matured, you pushed your silly little crush deep deep down early in the year.

Besides, there was a guy in your grade who you've been liking for a while now. You talked often with him, and he was funny and clever. You play the same video games, and share the love for art. He was super attractive too, and him teasing you lightly and seeking you out only made you fall harder. But you mistake the laughter and banter for warmth- for the kind of connection you yearned for. 

Near the end of the school year, you finally admitted it to the boy. Your feelings, out on a plate that trembles from your shaking hands and pounding heart and... he laughs.

"Wait, you thought I was serious?"

The words hit you and you instantly become hollow. You don't even remember the rest of what he said. Something about how he never saw you in that way. But all you could focus on was the little scoff, the awkwardness, the laugh. The humiliation replayed in your head all day, and you realized too late that the teasing was never friendly, and that your feelings were more disposable than you thought.

By the end of the school day, you feel nauseous. Ironically, not from the pit in your stomach but from how you didn't know how to keep your face from not looking nauseous.

And to make things worse, you had to keep a not-nauseous face in front of your brother... and Phainon, who were both picking you up after school.

You think you were doing a good job- purposely walking three steps behind them and looking down, lest they see you secretly wiping your tears. But as the three of you walk to the bus station, Mydei's eyes widen as he catches the sight of your reddening nose.

"You okay?" Mydei asks suddenly. You blink up, and fuck- even your eyes couldn't hide how puffy they felt.

"I'm fine." You reply. But your voice is croaky, and your sleeve suspiciously in front of your nose.

"You're crying." Mydei observes.

"I said I'm fine." You turn away defensively. Mydei's jaw gets tight, and he steps closer to you.

Panic and anger starts flaring up between you and Mydei, the two of your snapping and cutting off each other. 

"What happened."

"Nothing."

"Who did it then?"

"Nobody."

"I know it wasn't fucking nobody."

"Just drop it Mydei!"

Phainon steps in gently with his hands raised between you and your brother. "Hey, let's just get to the station, okay?"

You almost forgot Phainon was there. You didn't want to know what he was thinking, and in the moment you didn’t care. Mydei glares at you, growling as he turns to keep walking to the station, reluctantly following Phainon's advice. You follow the boys silently, your heart hammering. It's embarrassing you think, how you've just argued with your brother out in the open like a child. You were eighteen for fucks sake.

The bus ride was painfully quiet between the three of you, and you didn't dare look up from your feet. After a while, Mydei speaks again.

"Was it that guy?" Your brother's voice low, but clearly aimed at you. You start getting nauseous again.

"No." You lie. It was small and desperate. You almost cry when you see your brother shaking his head from the corner of your eye. Was he disappointed in you? For lying? Because of the guy in your class? You weren't sure. Still, you knew you should never have told him. Mydei says nothing.

When you finally reach your home, you don't wait to rush straight to your bedroom, slamming the door behind you. You drop onto your bed, face flat into your sheets as you sob into them, hoping they muffle the sound. You feel so stupid.

Meanwhile, Mydei stomps into the house, shoulders rigid with anger as he violently sits on the couch, his fingers pinching his brows. For once, Phainon is nervous to enter further into your house. Even with uncertainty and a small ache in his chest, he approaches Mydei.

"Are you okay...?" He asks, slowly putting his bag down. A long silence passes, and Mydei doesn't even look up at him.

"Do whatever you want." Mydei says, not even answering Phainon's question. Okay- so obviously Mydei (and you) weren't okay. Phainon sits beside him anyway. He eventually convinces your brother to go wash his face to cool down.

An hour passes, and Phainon realizes he was alone. Actually, he realized it a lot longer ago, when he heard the sound of the bathroom door closing... and then Mydei's own door.

This should be awkward for him. Being promised a normal hangout but now being left alone in a house that isn't his, where both his friends were upset. Against his better judgment, he softly walks down the halls to your door. He hesitates a little before knocking lightly.

"Hey... are you okay…?" He asks.

On the other side of the door, you gulp, swallowing your sobs for the nth time. You stay silent, both from not knowing what to say and not wanting to face him.

"I-I don't need to come in." Phainon continues cautiously, and you keep quiet. "I just wanted to know if you were okay..."

You shouldn't be replying to him, not now. Even so-

"I'm not." Ew. Your voice comes out watery and snotty. Weirdly enough, something in Phainon's chest breathes a sigh of relief at hearing your voice.

"Can I sit with you?" He asks immediately after. "We don't have to talk."

You hesitate again. Every nerve in your body is telling you no- that you should keep the door locked and not let him or anyone see you like this. But Phainon's voice was gentle, just like you've always known, and- ...this is so dumb. 

"...Fine." You mumble, creaking your door slightly open.

Phainon immediately pushes the door wider. His heart sinks when he sees you with red swollen eyes and hunched shoulders. But you don't even notice- in fact the only thing you do notice is the ghost of a hopeful smile just before he crushes you with a hug.

"Hey," He murmurs, as if greeting you after not seeing you for a while. "I've got you."

You stiffen for a second. The hug wasn’t even that tight, his grip light and loose like he was afraid of breaking you. His hold remained respectful, and so you let yourself melt into him, chin resting on his shoulder even if it was for a few pathetic seconds.

He pulls away eventually and gestures for you to sit back on your bed while he sits on your chair. You’re hoping Phainon doesn’t notice the disgusting tissues piling up in your trash can.

“Do you… wanna talk about it?” He asks softly. And it’s really none of his business. But at this point you’re desperate and you’ve already let him in your room. So, you tell him.

You tell him everything despite the moments making your face hot with humiliation. From how you thought your shared interests and teasing with the guy meant something, to how you stupidly convinced yourself it was mutual. Somewhere along the line you also slowly realize how delusional you must have been. The boy simply didn’t like you because he didn’t see you in that way- no fault in that. But was it so bad to think that something could have came from it?

You shakily recall how much you trembled during your confession, voice and body and all. It should have been a sign since then. So, the answer is yes.

“I feel so stupid.” You blurt out, rubbing your eyes again. “

“Don’t say that,” Phainon coos softly. “It takes guts to confess. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

“You are…?” You sniffle.

“I thought he would have liked you too.” He explains matter of factly. “Anyone with the same dynamic would have.”

Suddenly, a bitter type of anger twists within your stomach.

I thought he would have liked you too. Anyone would have.

Phainon’s words were kind, but you felt that they were too kind for the utter stupidity you subjected yourself to. You think about how some of your classmates knew of your playful rivalry with the boy and started encouraging it. You think about the nights you spent up texting your friends, secretly giggling and squealing over every little interaction and replaying conversations you had with the boy. You think about how much time you wasted.

And then it hits you- how stupid you look right now. Crying, eyes swollen, puffy nose, and your voice all watery and wobbly… with Phainon watching all of it. Heat starts flooding your face again, and before you knew it the bitterness was tumbling out of your mouth.

“You don’t know anything.” You mutter quietly. But Phainon hears it.

“What-“

“You don’t.” You stand up suddenly, your change in demeanour now prevalent. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

No wait-

Your seething words get to Phainon, the corner of his eyes turning downwards, heart aching. You immediately feel the guilt and shame, but it’s too late. 

“I’m not.” Phainon replies quietly. Somehow, his tone was normal- unaffected even after the bitterness from you. For a second your heart wants to double down. But your words tell a different story.

“Yes, you are.” You refuse to make eye contact with him, but your message remains clear. “Just- Just get out. Please.”

There’s a pause where a small part of you hoped that Phainon would stay. But of course, your words have already left your mouth and told him otherwise. Phainon stands up, a deep sigh coming out of him. He nods once with a bittersweet smile as if accepting something he doesn’t want to.

“Okay… I’ll give you space.” Phainon says softly. He hesitates at your door for a bit. “I’ll be outside if you still want to talk…”

Phainon finally leaves, making sure to close your door for you. Almost immediately, you start crying again, though the embarrassment lingers longer than the tears. Curled within your blankets, your mind can’t help but replay the moment, finding a new detail to hate each time. You shouldn’t even be crying this much. Even as you found yourself liking this boy throughout the school year, you internally told yourself to prepare for the chance of heartbreak. You couldn’t expect everything to be a happy ending, right? Yet as you become aware of the sorry state of yourself now, it seems to be more painful.

Because maybe, a small foolish part of yourself thought that he might say yes. 

The more you thought about it, the more humiliating this whole thing felt. The butterflies, the daydreams, the hopeful little fantasies you built in your head- how arrogant were you to think someone would like you back? The answer should have been obvious from the beginning.

On the other side of the door, Phainon stands there for a moment with a heavy heart as he hears your muffled sobs and sniffles. He’s about to turn and walk back to the couch when suddenly- a familiar pair of footsteps approaching make Phainon snap up. Mydei.

The boys both look at each other with wide eyes, not knowing where to start. Phainon’s mouth opens though nothing comes out, while Mydei stands there with an unreadable expression and his arms crossed.

“I-I wasn’t- I mean- I was just…” Phainon trails off, not really making any sense.

“I know.” Mydei replies while letting out an exhale. Phainon’s half relieved but also half confused. He knew Mydei was quite protective of you, but he surprisingly wasn’t mad at him for talking to you after a meltdown. Mydei opens his eyes, but avoids looking towards your bedroom door. “Was it about that guy…?”

Phainon is torn between telling his best friend and respecting your privacy. It was hard when Mydei was already this perceptive- what else was there to hide?

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Phainon sighs with a meek smile. A neutral answer, yet it told Mydei everything he needs to know. Your brother doesn’t press on for information, only deeply exhaling again while walking towards the living room.

“I’m bad at this.” Mydei mutters, flopping on the couch. Phainon curiously trails after him. “You’re better than this than me.”

Phainon blinks, then rounds the couch to sit beside him. “That’s not true.”

“She talked to you, not me.” Mydei says flatly, rubbing his hands on his face. Phainon swears he saw the corners of Mydei’s eyes still recovering from redness(?) but he decides not to comment on it. He thinks back to your red eyes, and how he wished he could have comforted you more.

“I know you… never really liked that guy in the first place but,” Phainon says, giving a hopeful smile. “She needs you more than me. Even if she doesn’t say it.”

“And…? I’d just make things worse.” Mydei lowly protests. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Yeah, you probably would.” Phainon pokes at Mydei, and his head snaps towards him giving him a glare. Phainon chuckles, though he knew his friend would know that he was half joking. Phainon offers a weak smile. “But at least it meant you tried.”

A beat of silence hangs in the air, but it wasn’t heavy this time. 

“I’m sorry.” Mydei says, his voice low. Phainon’s ears perk up, unsure if Mydei really meant that.

“What did you say-”

“I said go home.” Mydei deflects, facing away from him. But even with the unsaid words, Phainon knew his friend had a lot of heart, and didn’t mean to cause this conflict and awkwardness. Mydei picks up Phainon’s bag and throws it at him. “I’ll talk to her later…”

And finally, Phainon breathes a sigh of relief, having a gut feeling that this would resolve itself soon enough.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Age: 18, start of university

It’s been about almost a year since that argument you had with your brother about that stupid crush. 

Mydei did end up knocking on your door that night, and you had a talk. It wasn’t perfect by any means- there was still some frustration and shouting. Mydei kept telling you how he knew he should have trusted his gut on how that guy was bad. You kept telling him that it wasn’t his business, and that you could take care of yourself. You weren’t a little kid anymore.

Eventually, the anger fizzled out and Mydei remembers that the whole reason for this conversation wasn’t about being right. 

You both sit in silence for a while, until Mydei gives you an awkward side hug, murmuring about how that guy sucked. If it was anything you could agree on now, 

“You’re not serious about beating him up are you?” You ask incredulously.

“Yeah I am. Got a problem?” Mydei replies without an ounce of care. You roll your eyes.

“Um yes, there is a problem. An ethical one.” You say like it was obvious- because it was!

“Who gives a shit?” Mydei shrugs. You can’t help but laugh at Mydei’s straightforward yet completely honest answer, because truthfully you would probably think the same if it weren’t for repercussions. You knew you couldn’t change anything from what happened, though a part of the embarrassment still remains deep in your heart. You decide to do your best and move on- and more importantly, you didn’t want to argue with your brother, or stay mad at him for his way of thinking.

Later that night, you also made sure to text Phainon, and you get a reply back pretty quickly.

(Y/N): I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. I really appreciate you coming to comfort me, even if I wasn’t accepting of it.  Phainon: There’s no need to apologize. I understand you were hurt.

For a moment you stare at the screen. Even with all these years knowing Phainon, his gentleness still astounded you.

Phainon: You’re tougher than you think. Always have been. 

You smile at the text. Stubborn would have been a better word, you think, especially with Mydei as part of the context. Still, this was the last time you saw Phainon before entering university, which made things slightly awkward. Things are resolved, but you still can’t shake off the fact that the last impression you had was bawling your eyes out in front of him, and then snapping at him right after. 

The summer passes quietly after that. You don’t see Phainon much since you were preparing to start your own journey in university. You were ready for things to change.

Well, most things. Mydei was still protective of you, and you suddenly see a (less nice) carbon copy of your mother following you into the post-secondary life. 

Make sure you lock your doors, I don’t care if you’re just going for a coffee down the street. And don’t walk home alone when you have night classes. Holy moly, it was barely even the first day and he was already giving you orders like it was boot camp. Still, you don’t fault him for it. You figured you’d catch yourself forgetting something like that eventually, since these seemingly “normal” procedures might not be the first thing you think of.

Speaking of your first day and Mydei- he insisted on picking you and your friend up after the orientation party. 

“Please don’t tell me that stupid mascot was there.” Mydei groans.

“It was.” You reply, giggling as you and your friend hop in the backseats.

“I thought they’d stop doing that, bringing him to all these campus events.” Mydei scoffs, then mumbles something about how the mascot was just dancing in a corner. Clearly the mascot was haunting his dreams.

“Hey, he’s doing his best.” A familiar voice laughs. 

Your nose catches onto the realization first, the familiar scent of wheat drifting past you as you shifted into Mydei’s car. You abruptly look up from tugging on the seatbelt and realize- oh. Phainon was here too in the passenger seat. Wait- he looks… different. He wasn’t completely unrecognizable but his voice got lower, and he seemed much more confident which was somehow possible.

Well this was unfair. What was that line you heard from that one video game again? “Doctor- you’re… huge!” And you think that because holy fuck he was huge. From what you could see, his arms got all bulked up with muscle, shoulders extending past the width of the passenger seat of your brother’s car. What the hell happened over one year? Phainon goes through puberty and he gets taller and hotter. You go through puberty and you get pimples and a menstrual cycle. Or in other words: fuck you I guess.

“Is that Phainon? The guy you mentioned?” Your friend whispers to you, which snaps you out of your trance.

“Wha- I mean yes-”

“He’s cute. Super cute.” She whispers with a knowing grin. You’re hoping her statement falls on deaf ears but to your dismay, Phainon turns around, and you finally see his handsome face and smug grin.

“Was I supposed to hear that?~” He asks, looking at you straight in the eye. It wasn’t even the first day yet and your brain was already getting fried. Over a boy of all things. 

“No.” You seethe, smacking your forehead at your friend’s whispering that could have been quieter. Phainon laughs.

“Don’t inflate his ego.” Mydei adjusts the rearview mirror, casually making a jab at Phainon. Though, it doesn’t really do anything when Phainon was still smiling. 

“So, did you ladies have fun?” Phainon asks smoothly, looking back again, addressing the both of you. Your friend doesn’t answer, and you somehow get the feeling that she wanted you to talk, making your face subconsciously heat up.

“Um, yeah I guess.” You say awkwardly. You don’t know why you get shy when you respond, slowly sinking further into the seats as you struggle to even look at him. Phainon’s the same he’s always been- warm smiles, teasing lilts to his tone just to get you to talk to him, the scent of wheat. Still, your friend nudges your arm, telling you that she too noticed your speechlessness in front of him. Something is different. He is different.

As the car ride goes on, it’s fairly silent. Even though Phainon was sitting in the passenger seat, you couldn’t help but feel aware of your surroundings- like if he was gonna turn around or ask you something again. You tell yourself it was just to prepare yourself if he decides to look at you again. You hate that your eyes trace over him. 

“Are you gonna start going out like this every weekend?” Phainon’s poses this question to you and your friend, though his eyes linger on you mostly. 

“I dunno… Why?” You inquire, your shoulders slightly tensing when you watch Phainon’s lips curve into a teasing grin again.

“Just curious,” He shrugs. “Maybe you’d be better than Mydei who stayed in his dorm all the time when he was in first year.” 

Mydei grumbles, giving Phainon a light shove as his friend giggles. 

“There’s nothing to go out so often for.” Mydei proclaims with his arms crossed. His eyes then flicker to you in the rearview mirror, deciding to attack you for no reason like every older sibling does. “You couldn’t even go out without getting lost."

“I’m an adult Mydei.” You protest with an eyeroll as your brother embarrasses you (though he really is just a worrywart).

“Debatable.” Mydei scoffs.

“Mydei!” You yell. Phainon chuckles watching your short banter, then cuts in himself.

“She can handle herself.” Phainon gives Mydei a reassuring smile. There it was again- just a small little boost of confidence, that stupid faith he had in you that casually made you lose it. Not this again.

Still, even as the car pulls next to the curb and you’re ready to flop on your bed and gossip with your friend all night and more importantly brush off these feelings-

“Bye!” Phainon rolls his window down, waving at you. “Don’t stay up too late!”

Your feel that tingle at the back of your neck as you’re stunned at how Phainon said that phrase, though you barely have time to process it. 

“Oh my god…” Your friend latches onto your arm, startling you for a second. She hunches over as she walks to your shared dorm together, looking at you with a knowing smile. “Are you gonna address the elephant in the room, or should I just say it?” 

“What are you talking about?” You ask in a monotone voice as you unlock your door. You were hoping it wasn’t about-

“Uh hello? This Phainon guy, obviously.” Your friend says with an eye roll as if the topic was plain as day. “You didn’t tell me you guys were a thing.”

“We’re not,” you sputter. “He’s just a friend. My brother’s friend to be exact.”

“Yeah? Well this friend looks pretty happy to see you.” She hums, clearly not convinced. You both walk over to your her bedroom where you sit to talk. You roll your eyes, though you couldn’t stop how your body unconsciously tried turning away from her to hide your face. “He literally turned around to talk to you every five minutes. Did you even know he was gonna come to your orientation to flirt with you?”

You sputter at her bluntness, also not liking the way you got flustered so easily by her observations. But now that you think of it, why did Phainon even come along just to join Mydei to pick you up after your orientation?

“That wasn’t flirting.” You argue, not willing to entertain any more questions. “Anyway- are you gonna tell me about the drama that happened at prom or what?”

You and your friend end up chatting into the late hours. More importantly, you end up skillfully avoiding and not responding to that statement she made. Truthfully, your own thoughts terrify you. 

Deep down, a part of you knows that if Phainon was gonna keep talking to you like that- like he was teasing you, being all confident, and smiling and implying he wanted your company, you’re not going to be able to pretend it means nothing. 

You remember yourself one year ago, when you confessed to that boy in your school and how embarrassed you felt when he laughed and scoffed. You remember how dumb you felt for misreading things, and believing that it was something more. Even worse- you couldn’t believe Phainon just spoke to you like normal after your outburst at him, even though it was resolved now. You can’t let yourself do those things anymore. 

Unfortunately for you, confidence looked really good on Phainon. 

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Age: 18 (a few months later)

You think you settled into your classes and university life pretty well. Looking back at your orientation day, it felt a little ridiculous how much you spent worrying about Phainon’s perception of you. You were convinced that after you pushed him away that night when you were seventeen, that you had ruined everything. Or at least, that’s what you expected. You knew Phainon wasn’t the type to hold grudges or lie, but with the way he looked and talked to you that day, it was if he was entirely unaffected. 

As the semester goes by, you realized you were in your head too much after all. You were lingering outside with your friends, already complaining about a group project that was assigned when suddenly you felt a tap on your shoulder. 

“Hey, found you.” 

It’s Phainon.

“Oh, hey.” Your eyes widen when you realize it’s him. Your eyes trail up to finally meet his gaze, which looked a little too pleased with himself. Was he even aware of how he somehow just became unfairly attractive over one summer? Meanwhile, your friends’ jaws drop at the same time when they notice him spawn out of nowhere, and immediately interpret this as a signal to move two meters away.

“How are classes going?” He asks with a calm smile. You suddenly get a sense of scale of how much taller he got, now that you were with him standing up and not in a car. It was slightly embarrassing to you, how he was hunched over slightly to talk to you better.

“Okay I guess,” You say, shrugging. “Getting busy.”

Your friends watch, half in awe and half-deadpanned as you give Phainon a boring answer. And still, he smiles, remaining engaged as he talks to you.

“Good, good… Do you already have plans for the break?” Phainon asks, almost sheepishly. 

“I dunno, probably staying home with Mydei…” You reply. Phainon seems to inhale a little deeper before speaking again.

“I know finals are coming up soon… but I wanted to revive an old tradition, if you’re game?” Phainon asks. You cock your head to the side, unsure of what he meant. “The winter market, back near your home.”

Ah, right. You do remember the winter market- one you went with Mydei and Phainon when you guys were younger. You guys were barely teenagers, insisting you could go out by yourselves, and end up spending a majority of it listening to your brother whine about the cold. Still, it was a much simpler and nostalgic time you considered a core memory. 

“Do they still do it?” You ask, your eyes widening at Phainon bringing up something so nostalgic out of the blue. “I don’t know if I could convince Mydei to go… At his grown age I think he’d still complain about the snow.”

“He would do that.” Phainon chuckles breathily, knowing Mydei’s behaviour as well as you. “But I already convinced him to go.”

“You did?” You ask, your eyes widening. You truly underestimated Phainon’s power.

“Well, he did grumble about it for a good five minutes…” Phainon admits, scratching the back of his neck. “But he said he wanted to bring some of our friends, if we were going.”

Mydei has friends?

“Oh… your other friends…” A part of your confidence crumbles at the mention of your brother’s and Phainon’s other friends. You want to go- though you hadn’t really thought of why your heart was urging you to. At the same time, you’re not sure if you’d want to be in a group with randoms you didn’t know. For all you know, they could be just as stinky as your brother! Your response turns slightly dismissive. “I don’t know… I’ll check with Mydei if he’s going first.”

“He will. And if he says no I’ll make him go.” Phainon gives a devious grin and a thumbs up. Your uncomfortable posture turns more relaxed and you smile, seeing exactly what this was- the same game you’ve been playing for years. He was trying to invite you again.

“I’ll think about it.” You say finally. Phainon smiles wider, the corners of his eyes crinkling like he subtly won you over. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” He leans closer with a wink, and you think your brain stops functioning for a good second. He then straightens, giving you a casual wave before walking off. “See you then.”

You watch as his figure walks away, spotting one of his friend groups nearby and jogging to them. And-

“Oh. My. God.” Oh yeah, you almost forgot that your friends are still standing there.

They squealed and whispered animatedly, all nosy about your ties with this hot guy and theorizing on whether you’ve been dating or if the flirting was normal. The bombardment of questions and exclamations obviously pointing out Phainon’s… Phainon-ness made it hard to conceal your nerves. Wait- why were you nervous again?

“You guys-” You attempt to compose yourself, but your stammer already gives out your subconscious feelings. “You guys are delusional. Just because some attractive guy happens to be talking to me doesn’t mean anything romantic.”

“So you think he’s hot.” One of your friends chides, completely ignoring your argument and latching on a random detail. You pause for a moment, your mouth agape as you realize the small slip you made. You shake your head dramatically to dismiss any other thoughts, but your roommate beats you to answering that.

“That’s (Y/N)’s friend, Phainon.” Your roommate so graciously corrects with air quotes around the word friend. You have no idea why your cheeks start to burn up when your roommate sarcastically addresses Phainon as your friend. Or was it just an intrusive thought that you seemed like more than friends? Either way, you hope your flustered expression is not seen by your friend group. “And I’ve been saying the exact same things to her, but she’s denying the… well- whatever’s going on between them.”

“He’s literally my brother’s friend.” You roll your eyes as you correct her, emphasizing the involvement of Mydei in this whole ordeal. “As in he’s known me since I was like thirteen?”

“Uh-oh, that’s dangerous~” One friend sing-songs with a smug grin. “That means he’s already got a leg up in the game. And judging by what I just saw, men like him are hard to find. Y’know- kind, hot, knows all your habits?”

You want to roll your eyes again and ready to deny all these claims your friends are making, but you find yourself replaying that whole conversation with Phainon just now. Knows all your habits? It was certainly dangerous but not in the same way your friend stated. It was more like dangerous in the way that you didn't want Phainon remembering every embarrassing thing you did in front of him and being close enough that he would bring it up. You think back to how he kept trying to include you and ask you questions about yourself, and when you realize the exact same thing just happened-

“Sooo, what did he talk to you about?” Your friend interrupts your spiralling, and the rest of the group turns their heads to you expectantly. 

“He asked if I wanted to go to a winter market thingy we have back home.” You say casually. Your friends squeal- making you groan at their overreaction. 

“And? What did you say?”

“I said I’d think about it.” You shrug. Your friends dramatically sigh with disappointment, their hands sliding down their faces. 

“Okay- why did you say you’ll think about it? This is like… textbook winter arc in a shoujo manga where the leads go on a date and share hot chocolate.” Your roommate says incredulously. You roll your eyes, ignoring her obvious teasing as prepare to explain.

“It’s not a date.” You protest with an exhausted sigh. “Mydei and a few of their friends are going too.”

“Damn, that’s a lot of wheels.” She scoffs. The rest of your friends giggle. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You deadpan, the joke going over your head.

“Nothing.” She beams. “Anyway, what’s wrong with other people going?”

“It’s gonna be awkward as hell…” You groan, gritting your teeth as you drag out the words. Being as introverted as you are, situations like this felt iffy for you. You really don’t want to seem difficult, but if he was inviting other people you didn’t know, you felt like the odd one out. 

“So?” She scoffs, grabbing you by the shoulders lazily. “He’s going. He wants you there. He basically just asked you out. Isn’t that enough reason?”

You pause for a moment, your roommate’s argument surprisingly getting to you. 

“...That doesn’t mean anything.” You finally utter. Your friends groan in unison.

“Oh shut up, he’s cute! Just let yourself like him!” 

Your eyes widen at the bold command. Your friends burst out laughing, enjoying your embarrassed reactions from this so called gossip. It really sucks how now you couldn’t contain the tiny smile that creeps onto your face. 

Before you knew it, your thoughts spiralled and you couldn’t stop thinking about how Phainon smiled at you, or how easily he was able to spot you here on campus. Your gaze flickers briefly to Phainon’s direction again, where he was talking with his friend group. You end up staring for too long because Phainon seems to feel your eyes burning into him, and he turns his head to look at you. You awkwardly look away, not knowing whether to play it off or keep looking- either way it was gonna make you suspicious. But Phainon doesn’t seem to think so, because he sends you a small smile and a wave before going back to speaking with his friends. 

And now, with your friends observations combining with your own buried feelings, you’re realizing how hard it’s getting to believe that he was just a friend. You thought you’ve convinced yourself that you saw him as strictly a friend of your brother’s that you just happened to get to know. You thought you weren’t going to make another silly mistake about a boy. But… you’d be lying if you said you never thought he was… kinda…-

“Also- don’t you think (Y/N)’s brother is kinda cute?~”

Ew. Your friends continue giggling, not caring that they just called your brother hot in front of you. Yup, daydream-y thoughts gone. 

Nothing else needs to be said when a guttural scream tears from your throat.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Age: 18 (Winter break)

A couple weeks after stressing over exams, you find yourself standing in the middle of the winter market. For some reason, you felt like being here in and of itself was another way of admitting the real reason you were going- another way for your friends to tease you about you-know-who.

Speaking of friends, you realized something about Mydei’s friends.

You stuck to Mydei that night as you waited for the rest of the group to arrive. The market was glowing with the same warm lights and cold air, festive music drifting through the crowd. When they arrived, you greeted them all politely, offering a small smile. And then you see it.

All of Mydei’s friends were gorgeous.

What the fuck? As if it couldn’t make you any more anxious than you already were, they had to be stunning too. Even in the cold winter weather they dressed like they came out of a shoot for Vogue. You look at your own attire and feel hyperaware of how your coat makes you look like a puffball, and you tuck your hands in your pockets.

You see a girl with whitish hair that bleeds into a light purple, a cheerful girl with pink hair tied in two pigtails, a group of four that- wait… were those the twins? Stelle and Caelus? Oh god- you didn’t know they were a part of this hang out. Okay, it was probably dramatic to have this intrusive thought of hiding right now- but you couldn’t help it. They were well known across campus, and you couldn’t fathom them having connections to your brother of all people.

“Hey,” You feel somebody tap your shoulder and you turn around quickly- it’s Phainon. “You came.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You nod, breathing out. Your heart does that stupid flip again as you see Phainon- cheeks rosy already from the coldness, and flashing a toothy grin like it meant a lot to him. 

“He’s just a friend. My brother’s friend to be exact.” “That’s (Y/N)’s friend, Phainon.” You remember yours and your friends’ phrases being thrown around when Phainon was being introduced. You tell yourself again the same thing- that he’s just a friend, and this didn’t mean anything. That Phainon was just being friendly like he always was, and that whatever fluttering feeling you’re getting in your chest was just some naive hope that needed to be buried away again. 

The group moves slowly through the market, a safe distance enough to explore the booths and keeping sight of each other. You mostly stay near the back, hands tucked in your coat pockets as you listen to the group more than talking.

Before you could take notice of it, one of the girls falls into step with you.

“Hi! I don’t think we’ve met.” It’s the pink haired girl. “I’m Hyacine. You’re Mydei’s little sister, (Y/N), right?”

“Oh- hi. Nice to meet you.” You reply, adjusting your scarf to try and not seem anti-social. She then taps Mydei on the shoulder, who was walking in front of you two.

“Mydei, you’re sister is way cuter than you!” Hyacine clasps her hands theatrically and beams.

“Um… thanks?” Mydei blinks, then turns back. Hyacine laughs, and even you manage a small giggle. You kind of appreciate her humour (and jab at Mydei) and hope you didn’t come off as a stranger anymore. 

Before you could overthink it, Hyacine tugs you over to one of the booths, asking if you liked cute things. You stumble a little as the girl drags you to who knows where, though you reply saying you do. You notice the little unicorn plushie on her bag, and felt that it was on brand for her.

“Over here!” Hyacine giggles, not caring that you both were obviously straying from the group. There was no time to protest as you both weaving through the crowds until you both stop at one of the artist booths. You look around at what Hyacine wanted you to see, and see various keychains, stickers, and cute little handmade plushies lining the table. They were soft, mismatched coloured little creatures, sitting as if waiting for someone to adopt them.

“These are so cute!” Hyacine’s eyes light up, flickering from plush to plush. She silently hoped you felt enjoyment from this too. “Oh- and this one too.”

“They are.” You blink, picking one of the plushies up. It was a small pastel coloured star with a crooked smile. You thoughtfully turn it in your hands as you admire it. You wouldn’t lie if you said it didn’t intrigue you…

“Oh (Y/N)- that one matches your jacket!” Hyacine exclaims, pointing at the similarity.

“Huh? Oh yeah, it does.” You glance down at your attire and the coincidence that the plush you grabbed was the same colour. You didn’t even realize, but it was as if it was a subconscious gesture.

You stare down at the little star’s cute face and dangly legs. It was cute, and you certainly appreciate the maker’s craftsmanship. But you sigh, putting it down. “Mydei would probably scold me if I bought another one.”

“Aw, really? But he’s gonna be lonely. He even matches you!” Hyacine pouts, then shows you her unicorn plush. “You could match like me!”

You’re about to give an apologetic smile, but you think about the giant horde of stuffed toys you have at home and in your dorm and you feel like-

“What are we looking at?” Phainon’s voice comes from behind you, and you turn your head a bit too fast to where he was peering between you guys. Phainon bends slightly to take a closer look, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat. You get a whiff of his cologne and you have to look away. He looks relaxed in that unfairly easy way of his, even for doing something as basic as looking at stuff.

“We’re looking at stuffies!” Hyacine says joyfully. You shrink into your scarf a little, hoping Phainon doesn’t find it childish that you’re looking at plushies. “(Y/n) likes the star.”

“Hyacine-”

“The one with the little legs?” Phainon says simply. His eyes then flicker down to the one in your hand. “Were you gonna buy that one?”

“Oh-” You’re almost startled at how quickly Phainon noticed the plush in your hand, and you set it back down on the table. “Yeah- I mean… it’s cute, but I already have a lot of plushies at home.”

Phainon seems to be deep in thought as he stares between you and the star plush, but doesn’t say a word. You’re hoping he accepts your excuse and moves on. 

“Where were you? And everyone else?” Hyacine pipes up, tilting her head at Phainon.

“I was looking at the ceramics. I lost everyone else a while ago, but- oh, Cyrene said to regroup at the seats near the hot chocolate stand.” Phainon explains. A shiver runs through your spine as you briefly remember what your roommate said about this hangout being straight out of a shoujo manga. “You ladies can head back there when you’re finished. I’m gonna try looking for the others.”

“Okay, see you in a bit!” Hyacine waves to Phainon, then turns back to you. “Are you sure you don’t want to buy anything?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” You say with a bittersweet smile. “I’ll probably forget about it in a few days.”

Hyacine nods, not wanting to pressure you. You turn away from the booth and walk with her towards the designated meeting place within the food vendor area. It was getting later, but from the way you were bumping shoulders with people, it felt like the amount of people were increasing. You both eventually find a few of the others at one of the picnic benches and join them to wait for the rest to arrive. You sigh, as you finally get a chance to sit down. Simply walking around a marketplace somehow exhausted you more than you thought.

For a moment, you close your eyes to rest from the clamour. Suddenly, you hear a little jingle coming from near you and you open them at the soft sound. 

“Hey.” Phainon stands in front of you, one hand holding a small fabric gift bag tied with sparkly string and tiny metal ornaments. From the lighting of this area, you could finally see the snowflakes clinging to his hair- even though they were the same colour. He sits down beside you, looking almost amused at your startled expression. 

“Hey, did you find everyone?” Hyacine leans over from the other side of the picnic table. 

“Most of them. I think Cyrene found the others I didn’t.” Phainon replies. On cue, Mydei and a few others walk past and take their own seats at the table. Phainon’s attention shifts back to you, still holding out the bag.

“What’s this?” You ask suspiciously taking the bag. You felt your heart beating faster, not believing it was what you thought it was. 

“For you.” Phainon replies simply, waiting to see your reaction.

“What did you get her?” Hyacine gasps with glee, leaning closer in anticipation. The curiosity overwhelms you too, and you freeze as you peek into the bag. 

The little star plushie stares back at you.

“You- You bought it?” You ask softly, though your eyes going wide gave away that you were surprised. Phainon watches your expression carefully, and tries not to smile too much. “Phainon, you didn’t have to.”

“You liked it, didn’t you?” He counters, leaning his elbows on the surface of the table. And oh, how you hated how his casual response mirrored what your friends said to you a few weeks before- about something as simple as this being reason enough. Phainon never seemed to stop, like helping you was the easiest thing in the world. 

You stare down at the plushie, then between him and Hyacine. “I told Hyacine I’d forget about it eventually.”

Phainon tilts his head slightly. “Would you have?”

You idly look at Phainon, whose eyes seem to burn into yours with intensity, turning the question into a challenge. It makes you more flustered.

“I-” You stammer, your jaw going slack, not being able to form an answer. You end up sighing with a smile, realizing any excuse you might make would be null in the end. You clutch the plush a little tighter in your hands. “...I guess I wouldn’t have.”

Phainon grins softly at your surrender, the market lights reflecting off his face beautifully. 

By this time, the entire group had finally come together and decided to chill out here. You continued talking to Phainon, and for a while, you forget that you were here as a group- like it was just you two.

“Are you doing okay?” He asks you. “You seemed a little distant earlier.”

“I’m fine.” You say automatically. Phainon hums, not convinced. Somehow the tiny pout he sports makes you want to be vulnerable and tell him the truth, so you continue. “I just- it’s hard keeping up with everyone.”

Your reason sounded strange, but Phainon understood what you meant. He nods, but doesn’t push you, giving a reassuring grin. “You can just hang with me.”

The offer is casual, yet it makes you feel warm in the cold weather. And once again it’s like deja vu- where you felt like there was absolutely no reason for him to include you or make you feel comfortable in any way or for any reason. Yet he does. He always does.

“How did first semester treat you?” He says, changing the subject as he bumps his knee lightly against yours. 

“It was pretty normal.” You shrug. “I made a few friends, complained about professors and group projects a little. Exams were stressful, but nothing too out of the blue.”

“Complained enough to write a bad review on them?” He asks, clearly instigating. You watch as Phainon’s eyes twinkle mischievously, and you knew the website he was referring to. You snort before you could stop yourself, and Phainon grins faintly at the sound, visibly pleased he was able to pull it from you. 

“How else do you think I’m gonna spend my break?” You ask with a bit of sass. He laughs, nodding with approval. Phainon then shifts closer to you a little, his posture becoming more upright. It was subtle, but enough that he was creating a space where his attention felt undivided now. 

“You know…” He starts lightly. “We used to hang out more before university started.”

You’re caught off guard by his sudden observation. You didn’t expect him to speak up about the weird distance between you guys, but he was right. The last time you properly saw him was… before that day you bawled your eyes out and then shoved him away when he tried to comfort you. You cringe at the memory. God, you hope he forgot about that and remembered a different day when the two of you and Mydei were happy and playing games or something.

“I- have we…? What about… orientation?” Your grip on the plush tightens a little out of nervousness. You knew damn well orientation didn’t count for shit. Still, you attempt to feign obliviousness to ease some of the discomfort you felt inside, but Phainon chuckles, catching on immediately. 

“Yeah? And you probably saw the mascot more than me.” He pouts jokingly.

“No I didn’t-” You stammer, but suddenly stop yourself when you realize he could be right. You internally beat yourself up at the thought. 

“I’m just teasing.” Phainon laughs softly, then continues in a quieter tone. “Still… I kinda miss talking to you.”

And there it was. For once your heart wants to remember what it feels like to be wanted like this. You watch as Phainon straightens and closes his eyes for a second too long before continuing, as if he was trying to gather some confidence to prove the intention behind it.

“So,” His smile returns, charming as you’ve always known. “Do you wanna hang out sometime? Just us.”

Just as you thought your heartbeat could slow down, Phainon always seems to do something to prove that it was alive- that something inside was existing. Despite your shock and silence, Phainon doesn’t corner you with his proposal.

“We could go to a cafe, and I could buy you dessert… Or we can play video games over the break… Anything that doesn’t involve that stupid mascot.” He adds easily. Phainon gets another laugh out of you, and you somehow feel lighter. A beat of silence goes by again, and you watch as Phainon looks at you in anticipation.

“Yeah, I’d love that.” You say breathily, a smile escaping you. Phainon exhales, looking strangely relieved, like he-

“Phainon-” Another voice suddenly interrupts, and you both whip your head to the source from across the picnic bench. It was another pink haired girl- albeit a slightly deeper shade of pink than Hyacine’s. Her name was Cyrene, if you remembered correctly. “Wait, are you blushing?” The girl tilts her head at Phainon, and you almost choke on air. Phainon bursts out laughing. 

“I’m not.” He turns to Cyrene, insisting with a charming smile, putting his hands up in mock surrender. You take a closer look at his cheeks now that his face was turned more to the side. You swear you saw a bit of pink… was he- no, surely this was just the cold getting to his skin.

“Well you sure blush like you were just caught flirting.” Cyrene snaps back with a bit of attitude. You’re not really sure what to do in this situation, and seemingly neither does Phainon as he looks like he’s being teased by his friend. Cyrene then turns towards you with a soft smile.

“My name is Cyrene. You’re (Y/n), right?~” Cyrene asks, and you nod in response. You found it peculiar how everything she said sounded both playful and sweet- like a song. She looks at you with her eyes bright and cheerful. “You’re really pretty, you know that?”

“I-I am…?” Your cheeks go warm as you short circuit at the sudden compliment. Hyacine who had been off engaging with the others returns to insert herself in this conversation, and nods along, agreeing. Wait, Hyacine- she was supposed to be on your side! 

“Mhm~ So…” Cyrene drags out her words with a devious smile, wagging a threatening finger at Phainon. “If you are flirting, you do know Mydei would beat you up, right?”

“I would.” Mydei lazily chimes in from a few seats down, diagonal to you. You almost forgot he was here. Phainon’s skill at isolating you guys was certainly effective. Your brother’s two little words give you mixed thoughts: one making note of how little hesitation or humour there was in his tone, and another where you seriously have concerns of your brother threatening to beat someone up again. Perhaps a trip to a rage room was due soon. 

“See? He just said he would kill you.” Cyrene enunciates, clearly understanding that her friend didn’t seem to register the what she was implying. Oddly enough, Phainon just chuckles.

“And, I wouldn’t blame him.” 

The rest of the conversation becomes a blur. You start losing track of what they were saying after Cyrene groaned at Phainon for being an oblivious puppy in knowing the consequences. What a bizarre answer… …Consequences of what?

You think back to the compliments Hyacine and Cyrene paid you, saying you were cute and pretty. You thought it was just girls hyping another girl up- as girls do. But then you think of Cyrene calling out Phainon for blushing and threats for him potentially flirting, and wonder if she was teasing him… or if she actually meant it. There was a part of you that was in disbelief, inching closer to the fact that… you might actually have a chance.

On top of all that, there was Phainon’s own reply, confirming that he’d take a beating from your brother if he actually did cross a line. You tell yourself you were reading too much into it again. 

“So… I’ll see you soon, right (Y/n)?”

That night after everyone bid their farewells, and you and Mydei returned home in your childhood home, you quickly crash into the warmth of your bed and whip out your phone. You contemplate whether calling your roommate was gonna lead to her lovingly bullying you again, but you end up telling her everything anyway.

“I don’t know what else to tell you, girl.” Your roommate sighs endearingly at you through the phone. “He made an effort to invite you, he looked for you, bought you a present... I don’t think you’re imagining things… so what do you have to lose?”

You notice that you’ve gotten too excited from how high your heart rate must be. Your smile falters (not realizing that you were even smiling this whole time in the first place), and you remember your own consequences. 

“...That’s just the problem.” You sigh back, sitting up properly now. “I don’t want to be delusional again. I can’t just launch myself into… whatever this is and make up assumptions that aren’t real.” You grab your little star plush Phainon got you from your bag. You glance down at your star plushie again, fiddling with its stupid little legs, thinking- why does a star even need to have legs? 

Your roommate’s voice softens. “But it feels different, doesn’t it?”

You don’t end up answering her.

“I’m not expecting anything.” You say finally. Despite these months of your stubbornness with the topic of Phainon, your roommate doesn’t argue. She just smiles knowingly on the other side of the line, and lets it go.

You conclude the call by telling her the rest of the whole marketplace experience, and her own winter break shenanigans. Later, when your room is quiet, you lie back on your bed, holding the star plush up to the ceiling. 

You look at its silly dangly legs, finding something so out of place cute that makes it different from the rest. Stars were supposed to stay high above everyone else, beautiful from a distance. 

But perhaps this star had been made to reach people anyway.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Age: 19, second semester

Winter break came and went pretty fast. You and Mydei spend it mostly at home, spending time with your mom. Phainon went back to his hometown for the break as well. Like you said yourself, you weren’t expecting anything to happen during this time.

That is, until, a week after your second semester started, you started receiving texts from Phainon already. You remember your eyes widening at your phone screen when Phainon asked you if you wanted to do something during the weekends. From something as small as asking to join him in playing video games, to him insisting on accompanying you to a bookstore for your manga series, you said yes. Some small part inside you craved spending time with him, and you realized you did miss him a lot all this time. You felt like you reconnected with Phainon- just like when you were kids.

At the end of the semester, one of your peers decided to host a mixer and invited everyone in the class. The invitation sat in your messages for a while before you accepted it. A mixer… Just the thought alone of being invited sent a quiet thrill in your spine. 

Now, standing in front of the mirror, there was a brief moment where you wondered if you looked like you were trying too hard with your outfit… or too little. You wore something that showed a little more skin- a little more mature and confident, something you didn’t usually wear. Still, you decide not to dwell on the issue for long and head out. 

By the time you reached the location, there was already music and familiar people from your class there. People were clustered up, animatedly talking, hopefully having fun after the stress of final exams. A girl from your class waves you over, and passes a light drink to you. Soon enough, you overcame the initial anxiety and it felt freeing to mix in with the group.

Well, only for the first ten minutes.

You were going to excuse yourself to say hi to another acquaintance when a white-haired mass suddenly came into view- a particularly tall and handsome white-haired mass. 

Phainon? Here of all places?

Your stomach drops and you quickly duck near a corner, careful not to spill your drink or look crazy sneaking around. You peek over and see Phainon with his back turned, leaning against the kitchen island as he engages in conversation with other people. 

Your pulse was getting frantic, but you take a deep breath to try and calm yourself. Oh, but who were you kidding? If Phainon saw you here, you were sure that he would report you to Mydei within the minute. 

Phainon walks away from the kitchen counter, going off somewhere else, and you go the same direction as him to not cross paths with him. Could it be possible to avoid him this whole time? God, it was stupid when you thought about it. You basically just got here, and it shouldn’t even be scary to see Phainon here. But you weren’t really in the mood to see his smug grin or get lectured by your brother. Maybe you could hang with someone else and hide-

“That’s an interesting strategy.” A voice murmurs in your ear.

Phainon was already standing behind you, bending down to your height and way too close as amusement curls at the edge of his lips.

“Ah- Phainon! You scared me!” You hiss, your face going warm with embarrassment as you jolt backwards. Phainon only grins wider at your startled reaction. You become defensive, eyeing him up suspiciously. “What- why are you here?”

“I know the host.” Phainon says easily, then cheekily fires the same question to you. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing.” You grit. Phainon chuckles and shakes his head at your answer, and you internally smack your forehead. Out of all excuses, you had to say the most suspicious one? 

“Nothing but drinking, you mean?” Phainon inquires, pointing at your cup and clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “Mydei won’t be happy to hear this.”

Your face freezes at the mention of Mydei potentially knowing you were here. “I-It’s only five percent alcohol!”

“Ooh, how scandalous.” Phainon laughs, and you puff your cheeks in frustration of him teasing you.

“Oh shut up. I came here by myself so I’m not here to get drunk.” You say, rolling your eyes. 

“Even more scandalous.” He says with a whistle, and you groan. Phainon’s eyes soften, sensing he’s teased you enough. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Mydei.”

Phainon’s words surprise you a little. Oddly enough, he let's you have fun and doesn't report you like you thought he would.

As the night went on, you were pulled into conversations and stupid debates, laughing at some of your peers’ weird dance moves. Every now and then, you’d catch sight of Phainon somewhere across the house- sometimes talking to other people, sometimes smiling at you, and sometimes bumping your hip beside you as he indulges the conversation with you. 

The buzz of the music gets louder as the night goes on. You participate in the fun, but eventually you start feeling tired. Phainon notices and he taps your shoulder, leaning down, telling you something… but you don’t hear anything. Because he was so close, you suddenly realize the golden sun tattoo on the side of his neck- when did he get that? As Phainon spoke, you felt a little rush inside you, making you space out. You tried making sense of your surroundings but you soon realize that he was taking over all your senses. What you could see, what you could smell… muting all of them into one: him. Was he experiencing the same buzzing feeling? You watched as his lips curved up into a grin, whispering something to you. You stare at his lips- a faint blush colour, soft and plump… you wondered what it would feel like if you…

You nod plainly in response to him, though his words clearly weren’t getting through to you. Phainon realizes you were spacing out and he chuckles lightly and stands back up, holding his hand out. You blankly take it and he guides you out of the party. Also, did you just think of-

“You okay? I asked if you were getting tired.” Phainon breathes out, his voice finally reaching your ears.

“Hm- oh, yeah, I’m fine.” You perk up as you snap out of your daze. “I am a little tired…”

“I’ll drive you back then.” He says, already taking his car keys out. He phrases it not even as a question, like he would do it for you regardless. “Do you have everything?” 

You nod, and you both get into his car. The drive back to your dorm was strangely quiet. It was slightly awkward since your peer’s house wasn’t even that far from your residence, so the ride was gonna be short. However, it felt like there was something else underneath. It was something heavy, but not an uncomfortable-pit-in-your-stomach type of heavy. It was something more charged.

The blinker clicks lightly while the streetlights gradually slide across Phainon’s face in fleeting moments. His jaw, his mouth, the curve of his hands gripping the steering wheel. You looked away before you could get caught staring. God, you were going crazy for sure, you think. 

Your pulse still hasn’t settled. Was it adrenaline from the party? Maybe so, but even then it shouldn’t make you think of kis- 

“We’re here.” Phainon softly sing-songs. You get out of the car, and Phainon decides to walk you to your door. Again, not a question. 

When you both walk into the building together, you realized it was sort of awkward with the both of you being silent this whole time. Even more so as you arrived in the narrow hallway just outside your door. Phainon walks behind you, close enough that his presence alone fills your space. As you stop at your door, you decide to say something, though he’s closer than you expect when you turn to him. You clear your throat, your hand fumbling inside your purse to find your keys to regulate yourself. 

“Thanks for the ride.” You say, looking up at him gratefully. “And… thanks for not snitching on me.”

Phainon huffs a quiet laugh. “Anytime.”

You smiled despite yourself, like it was a subconscious thing- maybe it even a contagious thing, knowing Phainon was here. Even as you briefly look down to take your keys out, Phainon was already looking at you, like he had something to say, but he doesn’t. 

You were about to unlock your door and say goodbye, but somehow your body doesn’t want to listen. You don’t feel like doing it. Your dreamy daze continues, your eyes dipping over Phainon’s outfit. You suddenly felt aware of how good he looked in a white skin-tight shirt and jeans- did he always wear things like this? You catch a glimpse of the sun tattoo you saw earlier beneath the collar of his shirt, and you even swear you see a broad gold ring on his chest- another hidden one beneath his shirt. It makes you even more curious- but more than that, it made you want him. 

Before you knew it, your body had a mind of its own, leaning in without shame with your hands shyly but certainly reaching for him- to be closer to him. Your fingers brush his, and your breath hitches, the sparks making you second guess if you should even be doing this. But when you finally bring yourself to look up at him, his gaze was already looking down to your mouth.

“(Y/n)...” HIs voice drops, barely louder than a breath. His expression softens, yet his pupils were blown wide, as if there was something unguarded slipping through. He leans in, slow and careful, giving you time to pull away. Your breathing and your heart beats faster than ever. This definitely wasn’t just the adrenaline from the party.

Suddenly, a small click is heard and Phainon mutters a curse and pulls away quickly.

Wait…

You were stunned for a few seconds, watching as he pulled back. Before you could think of how to react, your door swings open to reveal Mydei looking sleepy yet confused. Oh yeah, your roommate already went home for the summer, so now you had a giant cat invading your space. You told Mydei you were gonna go out with some friends and then go back home with him after- you forgot you left him lounging here for a while. 

“Where were you?” Mydei quirks an eyebrow at you, and gives an even more skeptical look at Phainon. “And what are you doing here?”

“I was just dropping her off.” Phainon says lightly, though you could tell he was trying his best to not sound shaky. You weren’t sure how it was possible for him to reply and make up something so calmly.  Especially since the skin of your hand was still buzzing where you touched his just seconds ago. “She just got caught up saying bye to some friends.” Mydei gives him a weird look, but doesn’t question you both, and you give a sigh of relief.

Your brother and Phainon make small talk, both asking if they were heading home for the summer. Meanwhile, you remained silent, in your own little bubble unable to calm your racing heart.

“Get some rest.” Phainon addresses you with a simple wave, and just like that, he was gone. God, you wanted to… you wish you could…

“Why is he even still here on campus?” Mydei interrupts your train of thought as he holds your door open for you.

“O-Oh… I dunno. I bumped into him on the way back.” You say casually, walking into your dorm. Lies. “Why are you here so early…?”

“It’s night time.” Mydei retorts back. “Anyway, are you done packing your stuff?”

You nod, and quickly grab your bags and head back home with Mydei. 

The drive was silent, but for you it wasn’t. Even though you were exhausted after the mixer, you couldn’t seem to be able to rest during the long drive home. You look out the window, a small smile plastered on your face as you replay that brief yet charged moment in your head. The way he leaned in, the way you could feel his breath on your lips as he whispered your name…

You almost kissed him.

Was it always like this? Your heart was beating fast as it always did, but for once you didn’t feel surprised. It felt more like… you were finally letting yourself do something you always wanted to do. Like you’ve been waiting and wanting something, and that it was okay to want things. 

Maybe it was just the realization that Phainon was always perfectly within your grasp. 

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Age: 19, Summer Break

Phainon: Good morning. Phainon: I’m sorry about last night. 

It’s been a good twelve hours since you and Phainon almost kissed. At first you thought you had hallucinated it, and that you became delusional for real. Just as you had believed that this was just a figment of your imagination, Phainon never texted you- until this morning. 

(Y/n): Phainon, I don’t understand. (Y/n): Was it something I did…? Phainon: No, god no. Never. (Y/n): Then why are you apologizing?

You felt your smile drop, the warmth from last night following suit, slowly leaking away. 

Phainon: I'm sorry if I crossed a line. Phainon: You didn’t do anything wrong. I just didn’t want things to be awkward between us.

And it’s just so funny, isn’t it? How you’ve kept yourself safe on your own little island, with walls built so high and an army to guard your heart. And the one time you decide to let them down and embrace the sunlight, it hurts so much more. 

Your insides felt hollow, almost as if it was missing something. Confusion seems to consume you, making you anxious. The thought that you might have been too forward and was reading it all wrong feel like deja vu, specifically the same bitter feeling that you were so used to. The mere thought that Phainon didn’t want this to happen, makes your stomach coil. However, underneath the dreadful feeling was something else- because this wasn’t about you. Although you had this uncomfortable twinge of fear you refused to admit out loud, it wasn’t for yourself, but for Phainon. Though, to be honest, your thoughts were so frantic you wouldn’t even know where to begin asking. You stay rigid in your bed, staring at your phone. What exactly was Phainon thinking of that you weren’t?

A week later, you start getting antsy because you realize how quiet your summer vacation began. You continue to get nothing from Phainon. You gave him the benefit of the doubt, assuming he was probably busy with things back home. But as your phone sits on your desk, the screen continuing to be dark and empty, you find yourself constantly checking it, and it didn’t take long for your mind to spiral.

It’s ironic how noticeable an absence can be. 

Later, just past noon, you start to smell food being prepared, so you go down to investigate. You realized your mom was going all out for some reason, seasoning steaks and cutting vegetables as your kitchen became a room with groceries stacked high. There seemed to be something in the oven already as well. You get curious and decide to ask Mydei what your mother was preparing for.

“Hey.” You ask as you walk into his room, seeing him lounging and playing a video game lazily.

“Hey.” He responds. Mydei eyes you a little for a second then goes back to focusing on his game. “You’ve been in your room for a while.”

“Yeah…” You sigh a little sheepishly as Mydei points it out, straightforward as always. “Do you know what mom is preparing all that food for?”

“We’re barbecuing tonight, remember?” Mydei replies smoothly without looking up from his game. “I’ve got a honeycake in the oven.”

Mydei was in charge of the cake apparently, and already had it in baking in the oven. You soften at the thought. And then you don’t because he might have put boogers in there. 

“Oh… that’s a lot of food.” You remark. Something feels off for some reason, ironically like an emptiness despite the feast being prepared. 

When you walked into his room, you considered asking your brother what he would do if he was hypothetically faced with the situation you were- with Phainon that is. But then you already think of his response and- “I dunno, they both sound like idiots to me.” Yep, no help at all. To think you almost considered bucking up the courage to ask your brother for advice, when it should be better to question his reliability. 

Instead, you ask him a more direct question-

“...Is Phainon coming?” You ask. Your cheeks get a little warm, but satisfying your curiosity was more important.

The mention of Phainon seems to get Mydei’s attention a little more. “...No?”

It’s ironic how one little word could get you to frown so easily. But it simply didn’t sound right to you. Ever since you were teenagers, Phainon has came over consistently to your house, showing up to practically everything. Barbecues, birthdays, movie nights… or even the simple weekends where nothing special was happening, he ended up staying longer than expected. And when you all became older and busier, he always made the effort to show up at least once. There had never been a question of whether he was coming. 

“Oh…” The disappointed response tumbles out of your mouth before you even thought about it. You tell yourself that Phainon wasn’t obligated to come over, that he had his own life and responsibilities. Heck, he wasn’t even your friend first- he was technically Mydei’s but…

Still…

“Why do you ask?” Mydei asks, pausing his video game, sensing that you were concerned about something deeper.

It still felt wrong to you. 

“Because… I thought he’d be coming. He always comes over during the summer…” You reply cautiously. 

“So?” 

“So, he’s your best friend.”

“Isn’t he also yours?” Mydei retorts back skeptically. 

“Well yeah… but usually you invite him over.” You say meekly. 

“I asked him already.” Mydei sighs.  “Said he was busy.”

A lump forms in your throat. God, what were you supposed to do now? There were too many things unsaid, and even more things you wanted to ask. A part of you felt like Phainon’s response was an excuse- that if you didn’t get him now, that he’d just get farther from you. Were you going to have to wait until who knows when to talk to Phainon again? 

As your hand idly trails along your brother’s bedroom wall, it was like you’ve experienced this before. You, at thirteen years old, gathering all the courage you had (none) to nervously enter in your brother’s room to get your charger back- all at the expense of meeting Phainon. You remember how shy you were when Phainon tried talking to you that time, how weirded out you were when he tried to include you out of the blue. You were at the same place you were then- at the threshold of Mydei's doorway until Phainon stole the last word, calling out one last thing.

"Maybe next time then."

Before you could overthink it, you push yourself off the wall and face Mydei again.

“Can you ask him again?” You ask, and Mydei gives you a weird look.

“Why would I- he’s gonna say no again.” Mydei says. Now, why would his dear sister actively request Phainon’s presence? Even you, the sister, do not know. 

“Tell him I want him there.” You reply. The quiet determination in your eyes almost shocks Mydei. 

He blinks at you for a split second, like he understood the meaning behind it. Your brother doesn’t question you for once. He doesn’t get suspicious, or feel the need to protect you.

“...Fine.” Mydei sighs and picks up his phone again, and you watch as his fingers tap the screen to send the new text to Phainon. You stand there biting your lip, not even sure if this would work. You can’t even believe that Mydei actually agreed to do it. 

You thank your brother, and finally walk out of his bedroom, knowing the response might take time. But not even a second after you step into your own room, a buzz comes from your phone.

Phainon: Hey, I’m on my way. I’ll be there around 5.

Phainon: Thanks for inviting me 

A glimmer of hope finally starts to exist within your mind. Phainon was coming, simply because you asked. And maybe you were right about him- maybe he was just waiting for you, just like he always has. 

A few hours later, your doorbell rings. Your mom is the first to dash to the door, dropping everything to greet Phainon with a bone-crushing hug. Of course, Phainon’s used to it so it does little to affect him. 

“Phainon! Oh my goodness, look at you!” Your mother coos, the same endearments making Phainon chuckle. She continues gushing about Phainon as if he was family already- which in a sense he was. “You’ve grown so much- and so handsome too! Mydei, can you believe it?” 

You can smell your brother’s eyeroll from here. Meanwhile, Phainon smiles easily, nodding and murmuring something polite and charming. You haven’t even gone down to greet him yet, but little does anyone else know, hearing his voice- the mere existence and knowledge that he was here sent a thrill through you.

You hear your mother tell the boys that the barbecue will start soon, and they should wash up. The boys insist on helping your mom and they argue in a good-natured way. They split up and start preparing different things, with Mydei helping your mom prepare the grill. You hesitate for a moment, but take this as a cue to finally talk to Phainon.

You walk out from your bedroom, and as you linger at the top of the stairs looking down, Phainon seems to subconsciously pause mid-motion. Your heart still skipped when he looked at you- hands tucked into his pockets and white messy hair catching the sunlight from outside your backyard’s door. He subtly turns his head to you, and his smile was still there- soft, slightly hopeless, and nervous, like he was bracing himself for this moment just as you have.

“Hey…” He says lightly. It’s only been one week since you last saw him, yet it feels like it’s been a year. He even greets you like it’s been a year, and you knew he was feeling the same thing you were. You step closer, and you watch as his eyes attempt to hide the tension. 

“Hi…” You take a deep breath, the feeling of determination not helping you steady your nerves. But truthfully, you cared more that he was just here with you. His hopeless smile seems to be contagious as you start to sport the same one as you sigh with relief. “You made it.”

“Yeah…” Phainon breathes out. Oddly, his smile gets wider, like he was happy to end up coming to your home.

“...Can we talk?” You ask hesitantly. As always, Phainon surprises you, as he willingly walks closer to you, as if to follow you wherever. 

“Of course.” He replies smoothly. You give him a nod and slowly lead to towards your bedroom for a more private conversation. 

You close your door after Phainon walks in. He seems to curiously look around your room, noticing the little trinkets and photos that have changed over the years. He hasn’t been here for a while.

“Can I sit?” Phainon asks, patting your bed. You nod and say yes, and you both sit on the edge. You didn’t know where to start- diving straight into the obvious thing seemed too heavy.

“Mydei told me you were busy…” You remark. “I thought you weren’t gonna come.”

“I know.” He admits sheepishly. You felt the honesty beneath his words as he tries to ease any negative feelings you might harbour towards him for his initial excuse.  “I just thought that… I had crossed a line.”

“Crossed a line?” You repeat. Phainon pauses, then sighs endearingly. Your question was innocent, yet posed a different meaning for Phainon. For the first time in weeks, he feels the weight of what he’s kept inside.

“Remember what happened after the mixer?” Phainon asks. You nod, and he continues. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what?” 

“You know what.” He says with a light chuckle and nudge to your arm to ease the tension and awkwardness. “I… I almost kissed you.”

“But I almost kissed you too.” You remark guilelessly. Your gaze was unwavering, and you can feel him register the resolve behind it. You weren’t going to drop this were you? Of course you weren’t. So Phainon exhales slowly, giving a small awkward smile as he lowers his guard a little.

“...And that’s the problem. You’re Mydei’s sister. You’re not just anyone to me (Y/n)- you’re important. I can’t risk ruining what I have with you and Mydei.” Phainon sighs, rubbing his forehead like this was making him sweat. With how he was behaving, you get the feeling that he likely felt guilty- like a bastard who shouldn’t be liking his best friend’s sister, making it equivalent to a sin. Phainon seems to know something you don’t. Phainon sputters a little as he’s stuck between going off on a nervous rant and being gentle. Then he finally brings himself to explain further. “I-I mean… what would you have done if we really leaned in? Do you even know how to kiss?” 

“No…” You admit. “But you seem like you’d be good at it.”

“You really think so?” Phainon laughs softly, seeming curious at your remark. Oddly enough, his tone gets softer like a whisper as he presses you for another question. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re… you know…” You stammer, trying to latch onto something specific, but truthfully you could say anything. You take a good look at him and he’s still perfection incarnate. Phainon laughs softly again.

“I think you think way too highly of me.” He smiles, his tone slightly teasing like he found your answer amusing. You might even go as far as to say that he might’ve sounded a bit shy when he said that. Phainon’s hand lays on the bed, his pinky millimeters away from yours. He leans back a bit, as if to get a better look at you too. “How would you know if I’ve kissed anyone?”

You think again for a moment, except this time you didn’t have an answer. Phainon looks back at you patiently.

“I don’t know.” You admit quietly, but determination lingers in your eyes. Did you really know? No, of course not. No matter how perfect you thought he was, there was no way you could know if he had that kind of experience. So there was only one way to.

“But I want to know.”

Phainon’s breath catches in his throat, genuinely speechless for a moment at your response. He simply looks at you, the noises of the evening starting to disappear. His blue eyes seem strangely brighter than usual, like they were seeing every past version of yourself. And now here you were, your present self saying words that mirrored his own when he first met you, yearning to know more about each other. Just a girl standing in the hallway, waiting for someone to notice her, and a kind boy simply smiling back at her, who always has. He suddenly lets out a chuckle, small and breathless as he finally surrenders his noble front.

“Come here then.” He coaxes softly, his lashes seemingly fluttering in slow motion as his eyes open. You blink in surprise.

“What?”

“Come here.” Phainon repeats, his expression softening. His smile doesn’t falter, in fact- only getting wider and making the corners of his eyes crinkle in that boyish way you’ve always known. Somehow, you understood, and you start to surrender your own noble front as you move closer to him, unashamedly smiling just as bright as him. 

Phainon’s eyes trail your own as your thigh touches his. His hand comes up carefully to cup your cheek. There was no more hesitation in either of your movements. No more almosts and no more waiting- only the split second pause where you both realize this was the closest you’ve ever been, breaths mingling and eyes hazy as if you both couldn’t believe this was happening. You lean in even more, just the same as you did that night, and Phainon does too, just like you always knew he would. 

He leans down, and presses his lips to yours, letting his restraint crack just to taste what he’s been waiting so long for. You both close your eyes, savouring soft warmth of each other’s lips. Even the little smiles and chuckles, and now your hands softly laying on his chest were enjoyable. 

You pull away for a brief moment, yours and Phainon’s lips leaving with a soft smooch sound. There was a flicker of disbelief in your eyes, with Phainon’s looking equally as stunned. But the easy smiles that come after make you realize how it came so effortlessly for Phainon- nothing but affection. 

You both stare at each other, a little breathless and a little shy as if it was a way to come back down to Earth. But neither of you seem to want to let go. Phainon’s hand remains near your cheek, while yours remains loosely gripping onto the hem of his shirt. 

“I’m glad you wanted to know.” Phainon says softly with an awkward but loving smile. He gets a laugh out of you too, and even now he finds himself craving the sound more. He’d like to make you laugh like that more in the future. Now if only… “Shit- your brother’s gonna kill me.”

You watch as Phainon looks away slightly, his face going pale except for a sheepish blush. The consequence dawns on you as well, but in this moment as you’re still high on dopamine, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel it. 

“He’s gonna kill me too.” You shrug, trying to make him feel better. “And you say it as if you’re not one of his favourite people.”

“You’re his sister, he can’t be mad at you. Not for long at least.” Phainon says while sighing. Even though this guilt eats him up, he can’t help but smile. “Me though… I might need to pay in my next life.”

“But he’s never threatened to disown you.” You challenge. Phainon lets out a hearty laugh at your honesty, knowing his best friend could get quite creative with insults.

“Maybe not, but I feel like I’m about to find out.” Still, even if you both were about to be disowned by Mydei, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Phainon look this happy to be disowned. 

“We should head down now.” Phainon says softly, as the laughter dies down. You nod, though neither of you really move, both still sitting on your bed, smiling like dopes. You both laugh again, until Phainon stands and offers you his hand to stand up as well.

You take it without hesitation, and he pulls you up gently. And he doesn’t let go- neither of you do actually.

His fingers fit between yours easily, like it was meant to be this way. You and Phainon begin to walk towards your bedroom door to exit, though he seems a little hesitant.

“(Y/n)- how exactly are we going to explain to Mydei about this…?” He asks nervously, looking mildly embarrassed. You shrug, still not really caring.

“He’s just gonna have to deal with it.” You say casually, reaching for the doorknob. “Also, maybe don’t mention my brother within five minutes after we kiss.” 

A cheeky grin spreads on Phainon's face, finding your response utterly defiant yet endearing. He chuckles, shaking his head while smiling helplessly. A thousand teasing responses are circling within his head, though he opts to sprinkle a little sarcasm in there. “My bad. I’ll try to do better next time then.”

“Oh? There will be a next time?” 

A guttural scream tears through your throat (again?). MYDEI?!

Your’s and Phainon’s jaws both go slack, speechless as you both remain frozen in the threshold of your doorway. There stood your brother, deadpan with his arms crossed… wearing an apron and oven mitts. 

“Wh- MYDEI!!” You scream, mortified. You want to throw something at him, but the only thing beside you was a Phainon. “How long have you been standing there?!”

“How long have I been standing here? I think the better question is why you both aren’t downstairs.” Mydei’s tone reeks of sarcasm, very much not in the mood to take any bullshit from either of you. 

You realize Mydei was right- the entire house smelled delicious with the smells of good food was wafting everywhere. 

“There are steaks being grilled outside. I made honeycake...” Mydei lists, looking genuinely perplexed. Then his eyes look between you and Phainon, looking absolutely disgusted. “And yet here you both are… …kissing?”

You think you see Mydei shiver and gag slightly when he says the k-word, which should have been funny but right now you feel too defensive to think about that.

“MYDEI!!” 

Mydei barely has time to react when you suddenly decide to launch yourself at him.

“Hey-” Mydei sputters, grunting as you smack his arm, and then his shoulder. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“What is wrong with you?!” You snap back and hit your brother more though it doesn’t really affect him since he was holding you back. 

Meanwhile, Phainon watches the petty catfight of a sibling argument with a fond smile on his face. With Mydei looking disgusted while wearing an apron and oven mitts, fighting against you who was aggressively clawing at your brother like a cat, Phainon internally declares that he has never seen a more stupid thing in his life. Goodness, was this the glory that Kremnoans were known for? Somehow, it endeared him even more. 

“I don’t get why you’d be busy kissing when there’s good food downstairs.”

“STOP SAYING IT!”

“I made you a honeycake… for this?”

“I know you made honeycake! You mentioned it fifty times in the past two minutes! Is this seriously your priority?!” 

“My priority?- Look at yours!”

Was there really any point to this argument anymore?

After a few more lovely seconds of arguing, Phainon sighs fondly and clasps his hands, one of yours and the other on your brother’s shoulder. You and Mydei oddly stop bickering, both looking at Phainon’s expression which could only be described as fond disbelief. This entire scene was ridiculous, but somehow also his favourite.

“Alright alright, let’s just go down now. Hm?” Phainon smiles, hoping to ease the playful bullying. Mydei continues to glare at him. Right message, wrong messenger…

“...I’m gonna kill that guy.” Mydei seethes, looking straight at Phainon yet addressing you.

You want to start fighting your brother again, but to your surprise, Phainon laughs harder before you could react. Then, with the same gentle amusement from years ago, he reaches over and lightly pats Mydei’s shoulder. 

“I’ll hold you to it.”

The words feel familiar, because they are. You look at him now- his eyes crinkling with mirth as he said nearly the same thing months ago. For some reason, as you watch Mydei glare at Phainon- the bastard you just kissed had the audacity to smile at him, the silent look they gave each other somehow explained something you were secretly worrying about this whole time but never had to. 

Mydei probably knew, you think. You’re not sure how long he’s been suspecting it, though when you look back at your own antics it was probably obvious anyway. You cringe internally, not wanting to think about your brother knowing about this thing with Phainon for who knows how long. 

“Now- can we go eat before someone gets murdered?” Phainon asks tenderly, interrupting the chaos. It’s ironic how Phainon seems the happiest here, while you and Mydei both grumble and surrender. He’s still smiling, still patient with you and your brother. Phainon laughs again, and you all head downstairs together- though this time, Phainon doesn’t let go of your hand. 

And naturally, you don’t think to let go either. 

Your porch lights seem to glow with the same warmth that you’ve felt over the years. Your mother lovingly scolds Mydei for disappearing, and Mydei only grumbles saying nobody appreciates his cooking. 

You feel thirteen again as your memories overlap with reality. The smell of home cooking, summer air drifting through the windows, your brother being broody… And Phainon- a boy who started out a mystery, a teenage boy who simply sat at your table smiling like he already belonged there. You come to realize something: Phainon had never been a guest at this house. 

All those years, while you were busy mourning things you thought weren’t meant for you, something else was growing beside you the whole time. He became so much more to you, simply because he wanted to be, and because you finally let him.

And for Phainon? Of course it was easy for him. He had always been reaching for home in the first place.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Notes:

For reference, this fic is called Seventeen :)

I rewrote a couple of parts so I will reblog some of the deleted parts and extra notes here later so they don't go to waste in case anyone wants to see the alternative direction

Anyway thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed <3

You and Jax had the kind of humor that confused the others. After all, there aren't many members who insult each other and laugh about it; One doesn't call the other an ugly mug and get thrown back with an insult that would have an adult crying to their mother—yet you and Jax existed.

Your relationship was nothing short of pranks, harsh nicknames, and crude jokes. Your head would be tilted high as you chortled at the man's words. You were not only entertained, but confident, making the back and forth a cake walk.

However, there were moments where your blues took over. You were a more sensitive soul. Despite your funny moments, you wore your heart on your sleeve. You had a (metaphorical) raincloud over your head, dragging your feet wherever you go as the others gave a look of understanding.

Besides Jax, of course.

He treated you the same, even in your dampened state. The others would always have to tug him away from you whenever you were upset, but that wouldn't stop him from throwing an insulting joke your way, upsetting you even more. You even had your share of cries out of the blue, but even that didn't stop Jax, leading to him being scolded 100% of the time.

He waves his hand dismissively. "[Name]'s fine. The guy is as tough as a cinder block."

Ragatha throws her balled hands down. "Doesn't mean you have to be rude to him all the time!"

"It's our humor. It's how we joke around, you wouldn't get it."

Zooble rolls their eyes as they walk over. "Sure, but you think he always wants to joke around in that state?"

"Eh, he's used to it. You think that because he's curled on the ground means that he doesn't know how to take a joke." He drags out as he glances down the hallway to the rooms, "Tell you what, I'll even go to his room and prove you wrong." He challenges, directing himself to the hallway.

"Hey!" Ragatha goes to stomp towards him before Zooble places their hand in her shoulder.

"Let him go. If he wants to be stupid, let him."

Ragatha let out a small noise, fidgeting with her hands as she watched Jax leave.

He finds you sitting next to your door, body leaning against it at a slanted angle. Your cheek pressed against the wooden door as you sighed dejectedly.

"Watch out, depressed guy—12 o'clock." Jax calls out as he stood in front of you. You don't respond. You just sat there blinking at the carpet.

His smile flips. "The carpet's spewin' insults to you or what? You look like someone died."

"What do you want?" You mope as you angle your face up to him.

"I want you to stop being a sad sack." He responds plainly. "It's not entertaining to throw insults when the other guy is moping. If I wanted that, I'd be talking to Gangle." He points at you, "You're supposed to laugh and say something snarky back. So stop it and throw something at me, yeah?" He gestures to himself, eyes squinting at he smiles.

He then lifts his foot and kicks the side of your arm, making you fall over on the floor like a domino.

"Seriously?" He groans, "Being depressed isn't gonna make you better. If you want to be upset with someone and talk about it, I'm not the guy to do that with. You're like a Gangle number two. Get over it."

An insult obviously isn't tossed back, leaving your eyes to burn as you try to keep your tears at bay. You see the rabbit frown at you as you used your pointer and thumb to pinch the corner of your eyes.

"Hey. I'm just kidding." Jax says dryly as he taps his foot to your shoulder.

You let out a low sigh as you lift yourself back up and turn your head away. "Sorry, Jax, I'm just not feeling it."

He clicks his tongue and crosses his arms. "Things aren't really fun when you're sad, you know that?"

"I know." You respond. You begin to tap your foot rhythmically on the carpet. Jax just looks down at you before he rolls his head back with a groan.

You feel a weight is press against your side. Your eyes look over and catch Jax's shoulder against yours. You see his face continue to look forward despite his head tilting onto you.

You laugh out of confusion. "Is this your way of comforting me or?"

He shrugs, leaving silence to follow in.

The road narrowed as the forest crowded in like it meant to throttle its travelers. Pine needles slicked the ground. Old roots buckled the dirt and forced the horses to pick up their steps. Phainon walked alongside his steed instead of riding like he always did when the pace was slowed by terrain like this. It kept his hands free and his head clear. When your mare stumbled on a hidden root, you gave a small, startled gasp and fell against the animal’s neck, reins gripped tightly in hand. Without a word, Phainon reached up and steadied the horse with one hand.

The Land’s banner that usually flew above you had been stowed away. The King had departed with a small contingent of his most reliable men, leaving Phainon behind with orders that replayed in his skull with every step he took.

She doesn’t leave your sight. Not even for a moment. Until a deal is struck, the King’s—her father’s men will be searching every village and taking every road.

The words left a bitter taste in Phainon’s mouth. Being left behind wasn't punishment or demotion. It wasn’t personal, he had to remind himself. His Lord was negotiating for their future. He was making the bet of a lifetime on what the King would ransom for his precious, only daughter. In truth, Phainon had the most important task of all: Keep the leverage. Protect the leverage.

You passed the first keep by midday. It was too small to be considered for shelter. Nothing left but a stone carcass, roof burned out, banners rotted into colors no one remembered. The men didn’t slow. Someone whistled. Someone else jeered. Others laughed.

Phainon watched the men’s hands. Their curling mouths. The way their eyes slid towards the princess like marbles rolling along a slanted table.

Most of them treated their captive gently. Others soured against you. Those who, in a former life, suffered greatly under the thumb of your father’s rule. After one too many of the princess’s retellings of her ‘kidnapping’ and rhapsodizing about how she leapt from her bedroom window and was caught by a Knight on his steed, their resentment rankled into outright hatred and they took every opportunity to be cruel. 

Phainon moved closer to your mare. When one of his raiders drifted too near, he shifted nearer still, broad shoulders squared, posture settling into the silent warning he used before correcting another man’s stance. No words were needed.

By afternoon the forest thinned, opening onto a long stretch of road. With distance from the capital, the formation loosened. Riders strayed ahead or lagged behind, confidence creeping back into their gait.

“Princess,” Phainon said, keeping his eyes forward.

“Yes?” You turned in the saddle like you were being addressed in a hall, not on a forest road with a bunch of rough knights.

“Some of the men were talking ’bout passing you around.”

Your breath caught. “I don’t quite know what that means,” you said carefully, “but I fear I’m beginning to understand.”

He ground his teeth. “Take it seriously. We might be special but when our King isn’t around, we’re just a bunch of men. Some of us, terrible.”

You shook your head, quick and certain, like you were correcting a tutor. “I overheard your commander said it’s a kidnapping only in appearance. He would never let me come to harm.”

Phainon didn’t harbor any particular grudge against royalty, nor did he have any fondness for their ilk, but it was only too easy to be harsh with you. Coddling such softness in this world would only open the door for worse cruelties. He snorted. “Yeah, well, he isn’t here.”

“I know that. He doesn’t need to be,” You said. “His word is enough. The lot of you remind me of loyal mutts—following his orders without another thought.”

Phainon scoffed.

At that, your noble countenance faded and your face scrunched up. “Why do you laugh?“ 

Phainon didn’t answer.

You frowned at him then. “I know my father is a despot,” you said quietly, as if admitting a flaw in an heirloom. “But this is a political maneuver. I am not totally ignorant of the world.”

“Never said you were,” Phainon muttered.

“Then why warn me?” you asked petulantly.

“Because you’ll have to learn this part eventually. Men measure things by what they can take. Men are greedy, they take all they can hold in their hands and then when it seems they can’t take any more, men start imagining that their hands are bigger. I’m not just talking about taking treasures. Could be people too.”

You stiffened in your saddle, your knuckles whitening against the reins. “Please, enough.”

He shook his head, eyes narrowing as he stared ahead. “You ever once ask yourself what happens after? When our King gets what he wants from your father—kingdom handed over all peaceful-like.”

“Then the land will have a just ruler. I suppose.” you say.

"And you?" Phainon pressed.

You put on a brave face.

“No,” he said flatly. “That isn’t how these things work. You’d be sent away. That’s the deal. Our Lord gets the kingdom and you go back to your father.”

The color drained from your face. Your small hands gripped the reins tighter.

“Sir Phainon, I’ve already prepared myself for exile. I’m at peace with it.”

.

Two weeks passed in the abandoned monastery they’d claimed as their temporary refuge. Stone walls with blank arches where stained glass had once filtered light were patched with canvas and animal hides. The men settled into a restless routine, waiting for word from their King.

Phainon found himself perpetually in your orbit, the task of guarding you fell to him and him alone. You sat quietly in the old dormitory, mending your clothes or reading the tattered books someone had found for you. Ever so often, Phainon caught you staring into the distance. Something about your quiet dignity gnawed at him.

“Look at Phainon, following the princess around like a lovesick hound,” his comrade drawled, leaning against a crumbling column. “Remember how you used to glare at Mydei like he pissed in your porridge? Now it’s her royal highness getting the same treatment.”

The other men nearby snickered. The muscles in Phainon’s jaw tightened. He kept his eyes fixed on the treeline beyond the monastery walls, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

“It’s the same old song and dance," he continued, his voice carrying through the drafty hall. “All contempt on the outside, but we know what that really means, don’t we?" He sauntered closer, a crooked smile twisting his features. “First the warrior, now a sweet little dove."

Phainon turned slowly. The abbey seemed to darken around him as he fixed the other man with a stare that had made better men cower. “Say another word.”

“What’s the matter? Worried our King might not approve of you mooning over the woman—who’s the flesh and blood of our enemy?” he pressed, his voice dropping to a stage whisper.

In one swift motion, Phainon seized him by the collar and slammed him against the stone wall. The impact sent streams of dust cascading down from the crumbling mortar. His feet dangled inches above the ground, his face reddening as Phainon’s forearm pressed against his jaw.

“I told you to shut your mouth.” The main hall had gone silent, every man suddenly finding interest in the floor or the ceiling—anywhere but the confrontation unfolding before them.

The loquacious man struggled against the iron grip, but managed to force a smirk despite his predicament. “Hit... a nerve... did I?” he managed to choke out.

Phainon drew his fist back, ready to wipe that smug look from his face. The man’s eyes widened slightly, but the corner of his mouth remained upturned, as if this was exactly what he’d been angling for.

“Phainon, stop!” Cyrene implored as she rushed between them. Her face was flushed with urgency. “Both of you, come on. Not now! The princess is waking up—she can hear everything!”

Phainon’s gaze flicked toward the chamber where you had been resting, its tattered curtain stirring in the draft. He released his grip, letting the other slide down the wall until his feet touched stone again.

“Lucky for you the princess needs her guard dog,” he wheezed, massaging his throat.

Phainon heard Cyrene’s voice rising behind him. “What's wrong with you? She’s under our protection! Do you want his highness to hear about this when he returns?”

He pushed past the tattered curtain without caring to hear more. The dormitory was lit only by a single oil lamp that cast long shadows across the stone walls. You sat stock straight on the edge of a makeshift pallet, a worn woolen blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Your eyes were wide, face flushed with embarrassment.

“Is everything alright?” you asked.

Phainon stood awkwardly, suddenly aware of how he towered over you. “Everything’s fine,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “Just some ugly guy running his mouth again.”

Before you could continue, Phainon nodded toward the small stack beside your pallet. "So, uh, what are you reading?"

The question hung between you. Phainon figured his attempt to shift the conversation had been too obvious. But you looked pleasantly surprised, as if no one had asked about your reading habits in a long time. You reached for the topmost volume, a leather-bound thing with frayed edges and yellowed pages.

“Not much of a selection, I’m afraid,” you mumble, turning the book over in your hands. “Mostly old swordplay manuals. This one describes forms for combating multiple opponents. I've never seen such detailed illustrations for acts of bloodshed.”

Phainon sighed. “A whole lot of good a book’s gonna do in a fight.”

Your eyes linger on him. “Don’t you think there might be something useful here? Even for someone as skilled as you?”

Phainon crouched down to look, his brow furrowing. The manual was open to a page of stiff practitioners with their limbs arranged in perfect angles that bore little resemblance to the chaos of real battle.

“Nice pictures,“ he said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “But if you’re about to die, you don't have time to remember what some book told you about where to put your feet.”

You looked puzzled. “That’s strange. Father once mentioned that he learned a lot from these. He’s read all the combat treatises.”

Of course your father could learn from books. It was like you were trying to piss him off.

You turned a page, revealing an illustration of a swordsman facing three opponents, his blade positioned to create a wide arc. “What about this? The text says this stance can help maintain distance.”

Phainon snorted. “By the time you got your sword like that, you’d already have the second guy circling around to your back.”

Your fingers traced the lines of the illustration. “I trust you in that of course, but doesn’t the theory seem sound? It says here that by positioning yourself thus, you force your opponents to crowd each other, limiting their movements. Is that true?”

Phainon looked at the page again, studying the angles more carefully. The stance wasn’t entirely useless, he supposed. He could almost see himself executing the move, his blade carving through the air fast enough to create the defensive arc shown in the illustration. His reach would cut wider arcs than the drawing suggested. He’d be faster, harder to predict. With his strength and speed, he could make it work. He kept that assessment to himself. No sense in giving book learning more credit than it deserved.

“Maybe,” he said finally, standing back up. “Could try it sometime, I guess.”

Your face brightened, as if his small concession was some kind of victory. “I could mark the pages that seem most practical,” you offered, already leafing through the volume with renewed purpose.

“Please don’t, princess.”

He thought about telling you that he was born with a sword in his hand but thought better of it when he imagined how you might take it literally and how many questions that would spawn.

“Forgive me. I haven’t been sleeping well and I might’ve grown a bit restless. I’ve been reading these to pass the time,” you admit, closing the book carefully. “And perhaps... to better understand you.”

Your eyes fixed on Phainon’s sword with open curiosity.

“Sir Phainon,” you started cautiously. “Might I… might I see it more closely?”

He glanced down at the blade, then at your hands. “It’s heavy,” he warned. “Imagine what I’d have to tell the others if it landed on you.”

“I know. I’ve seen knights carry swords in processions all my life, but I’ve never actually touched one.”

Phainon drew the blade partway and angled the hilt toward you, keeping one hand firm against the flat side to steady it. You stepped nearer, as if approaching something that could strike you dead if you didn’t show the proper respect. You extended your fingers and laid them against the metal. The cold startled you. You traced the length of the blade, staying close to the fuller, avoiding the edges, following the nicks and notches where other weapons had met it in earnest.

“It is… scarred,” you murmured.

“It’s well used,” he corrected.

Sudden agitation crawled up Phainon’s spine as he watched you. “You’re so damn helpless, you know that? After all this, you have to learn to handle a blade. Even if it’s just a knife. I could show you the basics.”

You looked up at him with alarm. “Oh heavens, I could never. Even if I were a man, I don’t think I could lift a blade against another person.”

For a moment, Phainon was flooded with all the reasons you were wrong. Mercy can’t stop an arrow. High-minded ideals can’t break a siege. The world would grind you down for thinking that way. But when he saw the utterly sincere look on your face, any mounting arguments fell apart in his mouth.

He snorted instead. “You’re weirder than Mydei.”

Your brows knit together, that small frown that made you look younger than you were. “Oh?” you said, a touch of wounded pride creeping in. “Pray tell, how is Lord Mydei so weird?”

Phainon scratched at his neck, eyes sliding away. He didn’t have the words. He never did. These people and their shining convictions, their belief in something beyond survival. He loved that about Mydei, even as it carved a distance between them he could never bridge. You had a bit of that light too, just a softer kind. Maybe you two were truly meant for each other. Wait—what? The thought left Phainon feeling small, clumsy, outclassed in a way no battlefield had ever managed.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he said at last. “Some people are just… different. He was born special.”

You smiled faintly at that. “Sir Phainon… may I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.”

He paused. “Just ask.”

You folded your hands in your lap, fingers worrying at one another. “Do you think… people are born wanting great things?”

He snorted. “Probably not.”

That surprised you enough that you looked up. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“You're asking me. That's what you get.”

You nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something you had long suspected. “I never wanted to be a queen,” you confessed. “Not once. Not even when I was a child. I find all this terribly frightening but also… quite the relief.” 

You hesitated, then gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “Please, don’t tell another soul. I—I couldn’t bear for them to know.”

Phainon shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t... it isn’t my business.”

Seeing your distress, he added gently, “I will not.”

Relief washed over your face. You looked down at your hands, twisting them in your lap.

“Thank you. Despite that, I want to... be something. I will be a good queen, if I’m called to be.”

.

Night fell upon the monastery. Somewhere in the dark, a rafter complained with a noisy creak.

Phainon’s hand went to his sword hilt before thought had time to intervene. He turned his head, listening and quickly ruled out timbers settling into their age or the pressing of November gusts. The sound progressed with confidence. A weight placed, then withdrawn, hastening.

His eyes narrowed as he scanned the chamber’s shadows. The darkness beyond the single oil lamp suddenly seemed alive with possibilities. He stepped toward the wall with a practiced stealth.

Through a gap in the crumbling stone, he caught the faithless gleam of metal—a sword blade reflecting moonlight where no blade should be. Then another. And another.

“Shit,” he breathed.

Phainon’s jaw set as he counted the moving shapes. His mind raced through the options. They were already outnumbered, outflanked, and they were scattered throughout the monastery grounds.

A soft rustling behind him made him whirl around. You were stirring on your pallet, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the heel of your palm.

“Sir Phainon?” you murmured, voice drifting through the darkness, soft with sleep. “Is something amiss?”

He crossed the chamber in four long strides and clamped a calloused hand over your mouth, his other finger pressed to his lips. Your eyes widened, confusion giving way to alarm.

“Shut up,” he whispered, his breath hot in the shell of your ear. “They're here.”

He released you slowly, watching the terrible understanding settle in your eyes. A sudden crash shattered the night’s stillness—the abbey door exploded inward, wood splinters flying like deadly shrapnel. Shouts erupted from every direction.

A man’s voice rang out from the monastery’s decrepit bell tower, clear above the chaos. “They’ve come for the Princess! From the east ridge!”

Phainon drew his sword from its hanger, positioning himself between you and the door. 

The curtains of your chamber tore away and three soldiers in royal livery burst through, swords drawn.

“There she is!” One shouted, pointing at you with the tip of his blade. Steel caught the lamplight as they advanced.

Phainon didn’t hesitate. He swung his massive sword in a wide arc that caught the first man across the chest, nearly cleaving him in two. Blood sprayed across the stone floor as the body crumpled.

“Behind me! Now!” Phainon barked, already pivoting to meet the next attacker. 

You scrambled behind. Your breath came in short, terrified gasps. “How did they find us?”

“Doesn't matter now,” Phainon grunted, driving his blade into the second man's shoulder. The soldier screamed, his sword clattered to the stone floor.

More soldiers rushed in. Phainon met them with a savage swing, his blade connecting with two swords at once, the impact sending sparks flying in the dim light. One tried to circle around, making for the Princess. You ducked under Phainon’s cloak and wrapped your arms around his waist in a noose-like grip, your face pressed against his broad back, trembling.

“Hold tight,” he snarled and swung his sword in a wide arc. Blood splattered across the stone floor, slick under his boots as he backed toward the far wall. You whimpered as your naked feet patted wetly through his wake.

The narrow doorway worked to Phainon’s advantage, forcing his attackers to come at him one by one. He backed up steadily, keeping you sheltered underwing. The weight of you dragging down his waist was nothing compared to the burden of protecting your life. 

A crossbow bolt whistled past, embedding itself in the wooden beam above. Splinters rained down as he sidestepped, yanking you along with him as more soldiers poured through the doorway. The room was becoming a death trap. Through the cacophony, Phainon could make out Mydei’s voice calling for a retreat. Good. They knew what to do. Take to the fields, where their victory was assured.

His sword swept wide arcs that kept the soldiers at bay, but they were pressing closer, coordinating now, trying to flank him. Behind him, moonlight spilled through a low window. It faced an old storehouse they had converted to makeshift stables. He could hear a frenzy of untethering horses. If he could get you to them...

“When I say go,” he muttered over his shoulder, “you climb through that window and run straight for your horse. Don't look back.”

A soldier lunged at his left. Phainon pivoted, cleaving through the man’s shoulder. Another came from the right. He kicked that one back.

“Go!” Phainon ordered, wresting your arms away and thrusting you through the window frame in one violent motion. You tumbled through with a startled cry.

Pain ripped along his left side as a blade slashed through leather and found purchase in his flesh. Liquid fire sheets down his ribs. His tunic clung, sticky to his skin. The man who landed the blow grinned as he wrenched his sword free, red glistening along its edge. 

“Bleed the bastard!” Someone shouted.

Pain gathered at the core of him the way a storm focuses the sky. Heat flooded his skull as his vision tunneled, the edges dimming to shadow until only the men before him remained. His mouth peeled back from his teeth as he set both hands on the hilt. The soldiers hesitated. Without conscious thought, his body shifted, sword positioned like a scythe before the harvest.

“Come on, then,” he mumbled.

The yard had dissolved into chaos. His men rallied with superior horsemanship, hooves thundering against the packed earth. Swords flashed in the moonlight as they cut down the royal soldiers like wolves falling on routed sheep.

“Princess!” The cry tore from his throat, raw and desperate. Panic clawed at his chest—a foreign sensation he hadn’t felt since—

A soldier rushed him from the side. Without breaking stride, Phainon swung his blade in a low arc that severed the man’s legs at the knees. The man collapsed with a shriek, but Phainon had already moved past him, eyes scanning the chaos for any sign of the Princess.

Then Phainon saw you.

Your slight form bounced atop your white mare. Your face shone pale beneath the moon, hair wild as a leaf eddy in the autumn sky. You were seated properly astride the horse, not perched side-saddle as you’d always insisted before. Two of his comrades rode close at either side, swords drawn.

Relief surged through Phainon with such force that his knees nearly buckled. Even from this distance, he could see your face twist with concern as you scanned the field. The mare wheeled beneath you, restless and wide-eyed, hooves pawing at the churned earth while you tugged at the reins, trying to steady her.

Then your eyes met across the battle-strewn lawn, and your features transformed. Your arm shot up, finger extended toward him as you shouted something. The men nearest you turned sharply in their saddles, following your line of sight.

“He’s hurt,” you insisted in a litany the whole way over.

“Later,” Phainon managed, forcing the word out between breaths.

Another group of men moved to meet you. One opened his mouth, caught the look on Phainon’s face, and thought better of it. Another reached for the reins. Phainon waved him off with a short motion.

“Get a fire ready,” he said. “And hot water. Clean cloth.”

The man nodded and ran.

You slid from the saddle. Your feet struck the ground unevenly; you swayed and caught yourself against Phainon’s arm before you could stop. He went rigid at the touch—more reflex than discomfort. What little energy he possessed he used to resist the urge to shove you off.

“I can walk,” you said, flustered.

“Whatever, just follow me,” he replied, already scanning across the flurry of action at camp. Every sound scraped at him—the hammering of tent stakes, the rasp of flint, the low murmur of voices. His pulse beat loud in his ears.

You reached the open storehouse together. Phainon ducked inside first, eyes sweeping the dim interior before he gestured you in. He set his sword in the corner, angled just so, where his hand would find it even if he slumped. Only then did he allow himself to lean heavily against a wooden beam.

You hovered at the entrance, then stepped fully inside, clutching your cloak closed in a fist at your throat. Light from the hanging oil lamp illuminated Phainon and made him squint. You sucked in a sharp breath. He looked down and saw a red smear spreading along his side.

“Oh, Sir, Phainon. Please sit down,” you said in a trembling voice.

“You sit down first. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

You fell to your knees by a low stool, looking at him with huge, anxious eyes.

He obeyed then, not particularly compelled by the weight of one little princess’s expectations, but because the world tilted unpleasantly when he tried to stay standing. He lowered himself halfway down to the stool and fell heavily the rest of the way onto the seat. With some effort, he pulled off his blood stiffened armour and tunic. You averted your eyes. Stripped to the waist, Phainon shivered at the way his skin cooled in the night air even as his muscles started to ache. He looked over the damage. Blood had gone tacky and dark along his ribs. The cut was shallow but long. Another welt bruised his shoulder from where he bashed against the window frame.

Someone arrived at the doorway with water and rags which you leapt up to collect. When the canvas flap fell back and the sounds of the camp dulled Phainon let his shoulders sag, his gaze lifting to the slivers of moonlit sky that peeked through gaps in the roof. He exhaled noisily through his nose to slow the laboring of his breath.

You flitted around him like a nervous little bird unsure of where to land. Your sleeves were already rolled, forearms as pale as swans greeting the dawn. You had washed your hands; he could smell the sharp bite of vinegar beneath the steam rising from the linen cloth you carried.

“May I?” you asked, though your hands were already moving, hovering just shy of his skin.

Phainon braced himself. “Do whatever you want.”

You dabbed first. The cloth came away red, then pink. You swallowed but did not stop. The amber light caught the scars that mapped him. Old slashes that healed into crooked, pale lines seemed to startle you more than the fresh wounds. 

“I think this will sting,” you said apologetically, and pressed the soaked cloth along the cut.

He hissed through his teeth. His muscles jumped beneath your fingers.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said. “Hurts less than it looks.”

You didn’t seem to believe him. After cleaning, you reached for the small bowl of thick salve. Honey to keep rot away, followed by grease to protect the wound. You frowned, concentrating. Phainon almost admired the effort; he doubted you’d even made your own breakfast before. You reached for the linen bandages and pressed the first length gently against his side to hold the salve in place. Your fingers were warm. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and stared hard at the wall.

Then you began to wrap. 

Phainon held himself rigid, afraid that if he moved at all he’d knock you off balance. Every turn of the bandage seemed to pull you nearer. Your body pressed against him apologetically, slim shoulder brushing his chest, bushy hair tickling his cheek. He was acutely aware of how small the Princess was, and yet how carefully you tried not to rest your weight on him.

You reached around him again, fingers grazing his spine as you searched for the end of the wrap. His jaw clenched. His hands curled uselessly at his sides, unsure where they were supposed to go.

“You should sleep soon,” you said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

You also clearly had no conception of what ‘a lot of blood’ was. He’d lost more blood when he first joined the knights.

“Can’t,” he answered. “I’m taking the first watch.”

Your hands paused. “You can’t be up all night like this.”

“Never bothered me before,” he replied. 

You touched his bruised shoulder, then hesitated. “May I at least say a prayer for you?”

He shrugged, too exhausted to say otherwise.

You bowed your head, lips moving soundlessly. It was not as courtly and refined as Phainon would’ve expected, but something halting and earnest. Your fingers rested on his arm as if to press pure, unadulterated, divine love inside of him. You thanked God for him.

When you finished, you looked up, eyes wet, bright in the lamplight. “And thank you for protecting me, Sir Phainon,” you said.

He shifted, uncomfortable. “Sure.”

Your movements were steadier when you gathered the rags, rinsed them, folded them again.

“Try to sleep,” you said softly. “At least a little.”

He watched you step back, the lamplight catching the rough linen of your dress, the wild curve of your hair.

“I’ll rest,” he said. It was easier than arguing.

You nodded, satisfied, and sat back down on the ground. You looked like a pilgrim at his feet. Phainon sat there a moment longer, listening to the camp breathe, the bandage warm against his skin where your hands had been.

“You’re a nice woman,” he said abruptly. 

You tilted your head.

“You’re a decent person. I hope you’re queen someday—” He paused, scowling faintly. “I mean, if it means marrying someone who will treat you okay. Otherwise… I hope you’re not queen at all. On account of not wanting to be.”

You blinked, surprised, then smiled. “Thank you. I only hope I might be made a friend of yours after all this.” You glanced down at your borrowed clothes. “I may not look like it, but I think I’m much like you. I would lay down my life for my dream.”

Phainon huffed. “No. Better than me. I wouldn’t go this far for no dream.”

He didn’t say the rest aloud. I would die for my brotheren. For them only. There is a difference.

“Of course you would say that,” you replied gently. “You protect people, Sir Phainon.”

“For the coin,” he shot back. “It has nothing to do with chivalry.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Why do you argue every time I try to praise you?”

“Because I’m nothing like you. I’m not a good person… at all.”

You seemed to consider that. “You are your Lord’s most trusted knight. There must be good in you. Only someone who cares about goodness worries so much over whether they have it.”

Before he could answer, you spoke again, quieter now, as if to yourself. “All of the people who fight beside you believes in you, so I will as well.”

The words struck Phainon, more jarring than the wound in his side.

You studied him, your head still tilted, those eyes far too perceptive for someone who’d spent her life behind palace walls. “Do you doubt his judgment of you?”

“No,” Phainon answered softly. “I believe I don’t deserve it. Either way—I don’t want to be a knight. It is of little importance.” The words escaped before he could stop them, rougher than he intended.

Your eyes widened slightly.

To be remembered when absent—it was a strange kind of existence Phainon had often experienced.

“Yet you truly believe in his dream.”

“Yeah,” Phainon said.

Your gaze dropped to his cloak, to where the badge was pinned, frayed and bloodied. “I want a badge of my own.”

A short bark of a laugh escaped him. “You’re not as spoiled as I thought, I’ll give you that. One day, I’ll get you your badge.”

Your eyes lit. “You promise?”

“No,” Phainon said. “I don’t make those.”

Your mouth fell into a small, wounded pout.

He looked away. 

“But I will, Princess,” he added. “I will.”

.

Phainon startled awake from a deep sleep he couldn’t remember entering. His body hardened at once, his hand already closing on the sword hilt before his eyes had fully opened. Darkness pressed around him, the night still deep. Something was wrong. 

“Princess?” he called, keeping his voice low.

You didn’t answer. He didn’t see you anywhere.

A coldness took hold. He rose without sound and searched the small interior. Your cloak was missing. Your roughshod boots stood where you’d left them, side by side near the hay.

“Damn it,” he muttered, gathering his shirt and cloak.

Then he heard the soft sounds of weeping.

He chased it out to the ruined doorway and found you at once, huddled just outside with your legs drawn tight, forehead resting on your knees. You were wrapped in your cloak like it was the last thing left to you.

“Princess! Fucking hell, scared me half to death,” he admonished even as relief flooded him.

You looked up with a face full of shame, like a child discovered awake after hours. Then the look fell apart, and what you had been holding back gave way.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It was only a nightmare.”

“Get back inside,” he said brusquely. “You can tell me about it there.”

You rose, reached for his arm, and didn’t release it as you returned to your blankets over the unbaled hay.

Phainon leaned back against a beam. You stared down at your feet curled in the straw.

“Please don’t do that again.” Phainon said gruffly. “It freaks me out.”

You wiped your eyes.

Phainon considered being a little softer. “So, a… nightmare?”

“It was about Danae. I keep thinking I hear her voice,” you said at last, wavering. “She was more than my handmaid. She was my closest friend and I miss her… so much.”

“Huh… I’m sure you’ll see her again one day, at that country house of yours.”

You shook your head. “She’s dead, Sir Phainon.”

Phainon stared at you, the words hitting him like a physical blow. Dead. He’d assumed maids went forgotten in the chaos of the abduction. No one had said anything to him about casualties.

“I didn’t know,” Phainon said quietly.

Phainon lowered himself to one knee, bringing his face level with yours. The bandages pulled at his wound, but he ignored the pain.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of your dress. “My father discovered the deception I had done—and that she had helped me with it. He had her hanged before the court like a traitor. They—they said he was in a rage unlike any they’d seen before. He wouldn't even allow her a proper burial. So, I’m sure you can understand, I’ve come to hate my father.”

Phainon placed a heavy hand on your shoulder. It was all he could think to do.

You didn’t look up at his touch. “Everyone who comes near me dies.”

It was as if the ground had dropped away beneath him.

“Death has followed me since I was a child. My mother died when I was so small I can barely remember her face. Last year, my great uncle and dear cousin, murdered in their own chambers. And then my instructor, taken by that terrible fire!” You looked up at him, tears streaming down your face. “I’ve brought a terrible curse upon my house! I’m truly—”

“Stop it,” he interjected, his voice coming out rougher than intended. “You are not cursed.”

The taste of guilt on his tongue, Phainon pulled away from you, unable to bear the touch. His hands felt stained. The final moments of your family flashed behind his eyes. He saw the terror in their face, meeting death in those darkened chambers. How many losses had he inflicted on this girl who now looked to him for comfort?

“How can you be so sure?” you asked, your eyes wide and desperate for reassurance.

Phainon gave a bitter laugh. “Because it's my fault. I'm the bad omen. Always have been. Whatever curse is on your house started when we first came to your kingdom, because I was with em.”

Outside, ravens cawed and croaked in the night fog. He stood abruptly and paced the small space like a caged animal. The wound at his side pulled with each step, but he welcomed the pain. It felt deserved.

“I’m sorry,” Phainon said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. “I got too close… to my men, to you... to everyone. And you think you’re the one at fault? You aren’t.”

You rose from your place in the straw, the cloak falling away from your shoulders. You reached out, catching his arm as he turned to pace back. The touch was light, but it stopped him as surely as if you’d thrown a rope around him.

Phainon looked down at your small hand on his forearm, at the delicate fingers that had no business touching someone like him. He wanted to pull away but found he couldn’t.

“I’ve misjudged you terribly,” you whispered, your eyes searching his face. Dampness still clung to your lashes, your lips quivered. 

Your hand slid to his wrist. “Phainon…”

Phainon heard the exhaustion in your voice and realized too late that he should’ve put distance between you. 

You reached up, your lips brushed his cheek, then pressed again, trembling, like you were waiting for something to happen to you.

Phainon froze.

Some highly man would still bed this woman one day, wouldn’t he? Phainon never dared to imagine it before: the thoughts made an ugly impulse rise up. He almost jerked away from it, but it had already made its home in his blood. He kissed you as hard as he could.

Your gasp was suffocated as Phainon pressed forward like this was proof that he could stand within another’s dominion and not vanish.

Too long had Phainon stood upon the scales, awaiting the measure of his worth. In the ancient days, souls were weighed against feathers. You probably belonged to that bygone era. Nowadays, souls are weighed against iron, and every other hellbound defiler skirts their own devouring. His heart would always be a profane thing, no matter what was set against it.

You moaned against his mouth, a sound so unintentionally arousing that Phainon felt himself falling deeper into his haze. Your fingers clutched at his arms, as if you’d been waiting for this—for someone, anyone, to show you that passion existed beyond courtly words and distant promises.

No. That wasn’t quite right. Your strength might’ve been feeble, but you were… pushing him away.

He jerked back, a rush of air filled his lungs like he’d been drowning. You echoed him with your own starving gasp. Your eyes fluttered open, wide and stunned. A flush spread across your cheeks, turning your skin the heated color of dawn. You touched your parted mouth with trembling fingers. 

“Princess,” he started, his voice rough as gravel. The word hung between you, incomplete. What could he possibly say? That he’d kissed you in defiance of a man who wasn’t even here?

Phainon took a step back, putting distance between you, unable to look at your flushed face. “I’m at fault here.”

He turned away. Shame moved through him, slow and venomous. The kiss lingered on his lips and he wished he could spit it out. This treason against all kings. Worse, this mundane betrayal of a good and gentle woman.

At that, your cheeks colored. “No—no, I... I need certainty,” you breathe moments after, looking down and away from him.

A soft hand is placed on your cheek, making you look towards him.

“I want to touch you,” Phainon admits, with no amount of shame present in his voice. He likes the way you tremble at the timbre in his tone, so he plants a soft kiss on your shoulder, “I want to do a lot of things, to you.”

You look down at him, elevated as his hands find themselves beneath you. 

“A lot?”

Phainon nuzzles his nose beneath your chest, nodding as he looks up at you. 

“A lot.”

You look at him like some sort of apparition. And that is no good. No good at all. Because then it will lead to Phainon overthinking everything about you: your delicate fingers scratching at the skin on the back of his neck, the way your chest rises up and down, the haze in your eyes telling him you want him too. 

“Okay,” said Phainon. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “Undress for me. As far as you want.”

He watched with ardent interest as you unlaced the side of your kirtle and stepped out of it, a pool of deep navy settling by your feet. And then—to Phainon’s surprise—you reached for the bottom of your chemise and lifted it up. “Please treat me gently.”

Obeying your request comes just as easily. 

Phainon meets your mouth in a clash of teeth. Soft lips melt into his, and he explores every crevice of your mouth with adept dexterity. His hands bunch at your thighs, and you whimper—resting your chin on his broad shoulder when you pull away for air.

Still in his clothes, Phainon manages to tug his chausses down along with his boxers to his mid thighs, revealing his sturdy manhood. You moan into his mouth when the hot skin presses against your inner thigh. 

“Phai—Phainon, please,” you mewl so sweetly, gazing down at him with stars in your eyes. 

The very sight of you, held by him like this, would probably send him to purgatory. It’s debauched in every sense of the word. 

Phainon sighs, rubbing the head of his manhood over your slick folds that twitch and cream over it.

He rests his head on your collar, as you wrap your arms around him and bury yourself in the crook of his neck—a pliant and soft mess for him. 

“Phainon, Phainon” You cry, small tears escaping your eyes as he pushes you further down his cock, “Feels—Feels good.”

Sweat runs down his forehead, and your moist body presses against his. He kisses at your chest, which only makes you arch your back and press him further into you. Phainon’s thrusts grow more intense, wanting to take you away—wanting to have you all for himself. A warm hand goes down to tease your clit and when you tighten around him, he sees stars. When the familiar band of pleasure reaches him, something he had not felt in years, his thrusts grow more rapid—with a strong want.

“Phainon—l’m going to—,” You mewl, and he grips tighter onto your hips.

“I have you, I have you,” He grunts, driving further to make you reach your high. You hiccup, and Phainon can feel a few tears fall down and touch his skin when you pull away from his neck to meet his lips as you come around you. He comes shortly after, clutching onto your malleable frame tightly, afraid that if he were to blink you would disappear.

When he comes back down, you lay next to him. You collapse into his chest, and he hums, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. He still feels a bit high, especially as you coddle him. The moonlight paints the room in a soft glow—painting over your skin.

You prop yourself on his chest, and Phainon lets himself pet your cheek. 

“I am really glad you were born into this world,” you murmur, lids drooping—threatening to close. He rubs your cheekbone with the knuckle of his finger, pushing your cheek—urging you to rest.

.

Dawn broke over the camp in a wash of pale gold. When the scouts reported their King’s approach, relief washed through the camp like a fever breaking. Men straightened their postures, checked their weapons, brushed dirt from their cloaks.

Phainon stood apart from the others, arms crossed over his chest. The wound at his side had begun to itch, a sign of healing that irritated him more than the original pain. He scratched at it absently, watching the tree line.

His Highness rode at the head of his contingent, regal with the crown that costed a fortune. Behind him, the rest of the soldiers spread out in formation—Mydei’s dark silhouette recognizable among them, Chartonus’ massive form unmistakable.

Men called out greetings, some rushing forward to hear the news. You took a half-step backward, then stopped, composing yourself with visible effort.

Phainon stayed where he was, watching as his Liege dismounted in one fluid motion, handing his reins to a waiting servant. His eyes scanned the camp, taking in everything at once—the defensive positions, the state of the men, the provisions. When his gaze landed on the captive Princess from the other lands, his face hardened in a way Phainon had seen only rarely, a genuine hatred that made something twist inside him.

The men took their cue, backing away to give their commander a wide berth. Yet their eyes darted toward their commander and the Princess when they thought no one was looking. Phainon didn’t pretend. He watched openly.

You approached the other with small, hesitant steps. The distance between you closed like a wound healed. When you met, he took your hands in his, bending slightly to speak to you in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.

Your face fell.

Phainon leaned against a tree, arms still crossed, the bark rough against his shoulder blades. He felt the weight of his own presence, heavy and intrusive. He should turn away. He knew he should. But his eyes refused.

You parted. His King said something and you responded with a nod, then walked to where the others waited. You excused yourself with a small curtsy—a gesture that seemed absurd in your peasant clothes—before turning away, walking with newfound hurt toward the returning soldiers.

Something cold and leaden settled in Phainon’s stomach. He looked away, then forced himself to look back. This was the dream made flesh and then lead to the block. He had no right to flinch from it.

One thing was clear. His commander returned victorious. The deal had been struck.

.

As Phainon turned from the last of his junior comrades, you caught him by the arm with a firmness that brooked no evasion. You walked him back several paces from the others, set your heel, and pivoted you so his back was to the campfire. Your shadows stretched long across the frost-hardened earth, reaching past the tethered horses, which stamped and breathed pale steam into the morning air.

Close up, in the slanting light, you finally saw how different Phainon looked.

The planes of his face seemed sharper, casting shadows that weren't there before. A darkness pooled beneath his eyes, lending his gaze a bright, fevered clarity. His charm remained, but it had taken on the austere cast of a carven bust.

You had meant to greet him proper—as you should have, and then press your concern privately as a loyal confidant. Instead, the words broke from you unbidden.

“I’ll carry that promise with me into the grave.”

Peals of laughter erupted in the distance, followed by the clang of a kettle overturned and a chorus of friendly shouts. The noise rolled through the camp like a cleansing surf. You stepped closer, until he could smell the road dust on Phainon’s cloak, narrowing the space between you so your words wouldn’t carry.

Phainon looked affronted at first but then his eyes gathered into a winter storm. “Now is the time you choose to question the worth of his highness’ word?”

You released his arm, and broke down. “You feed me promises like I’m some invalid.”

“He’s won his kingdom,” Phainon said, authority settling into his voice. “He preserves his Knights. And one day, I swear he shall restore you to your rightful place. Which of these charges would you have me answer for?”

“So you really are sending me back to a murderer," you frowned, stepping closer until he could see the fine lines of exhaustion etched around your eyes. “Right back to the man who had the girl dressed as his own daughter hanged.”

“A king would not harm his only heir."

“Yes, except he isn’t a fucking king anymore, is he?” you pressed. “Please, just tell me it weighs on you. Tell me your conscience is tearing you apart. Please.”

If there was agony toiling within Phainon, it had submerged beyond sight, but his voice rang hollow like bones without marrow. “I can’t do that.”

You nearly cry. “But you can kiss me like that? Let me believe? That’s just cruel. I love you, you know?”

Phainon took a step back, putting distance between you, unable to look at your face. What could he say to you when court decorum was immaterial?

“Please, Sir Phainon. Do I still have my honor?”

“Of course you have. You did nothing—without our King to lead us, we’re just a bunch of men, remember? Me included.”

“I regret that this outcome causes you pain, truly. But it’s settled now,” Phainon said as though he’d already lost his knightly stature before the reign had even begun.

“Phainon, I’m exhausted,” you confessed at last. “After all this, I’ll have an even greater need of—”

He cut you off with a flustered sound halfway between a curse and a sigh and turned away. He was tired too. He felt empty.

“For what it’s worth, Princess—”

“You’ve done well.” You cut him off.

Phainon didn’t feel the swell of pride that usually came with your praise.

.

The men had drunk themselves into contentment, reassured by their leader’s presence as dogs are reassured by the return of a master long absent. Fires guttered low. Horses were sent to pasture to graze in peace. Men shuffled to their tents in a haze of dreamlike bliss.

Phainon was awake. He turned onto his back and stared at the canvas above him, where firelight breathed faintly through the weave.

He knew where you had retired for the night. A separate tent had been given over to you. A place no one would disturb.

Phainon shut his eyes.

Phainon imagined the lamplight dimmed to amber, shadows sliding along canvas walls. Pale bodies unburdened in private.

The thought came unbidden and would not be dislodged. Phainon pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes until sparks flared behind them. He felt like a stray in a stranger’s camp.

Your hands were soft. You would lift them to his brow, smoothing the line of strain there without fully knowing the gift you gave. You would rest your palm on his chest as if to reassure yourself his heart still beat. When you spoke his name, it would carry the same hush you used for prayer.

Would he draw you close? Offer you consolation before exile? You would not refuse him if he did.

In the far distance, a lone wolf’s howl carried thin and hungry over the plain.

Phainon listened to it with a dull ache in his chest. He hoped for the wolf to find him. Lead the whole pack into his tent. Finish what their distant kin had failed to do. Their teeth in his throat would be cleaner than the slow agony of rotting away in this yearning. This awful regret.

.

You had spoken of your summer residence more than once, describing a place half-remembered from childhood. It lay beyond the low hills, in a state of disuse, given how few were left now to occupy it. Laid down by your forefather, before the wars, built of pale gray stone veiled in ivy, its slate roof pitched steep against the weather. Cypress trees stood in dark rows along the garden walls, and winter grass had gone wild between the flagstones. The road to it was narrow and seldom used. The kind of place meant for comfortable retirements. The former King would be sitting there alone, amongst the dust-coated furniture. Awaiting your arrival.

Phainon accompanied you to the edge of camp. You stood in mutual silence, your cloak drawn tight and hair pinned plainly at your neck. You looked like someone who had stepped out of a storybook and found the world terribly unfamiliar.

With the old man’s abdication, the deal was all but sealed. You were to be moved like a piece cleared from the board. Secreted away like a pawn to join her disgraced king.

“You’re a nice woman,” Phainon said lamely.

“Sir Phainon,” you whispered.

He placed a hand over yours. “Please, take heart. The countryside will suit you. There will be gardens. Peace and quiet. Time enough for your needle arts.”

You nodded, clinging to every word. “Will you—when will you come?”

“I am sworn to never again entreat the former king. But I will come as before… as soon as possible.”

Phainon’s hand lingered a moment longer over yours. Then, with surprising reluctance, he released you. 

“I’ll be departing soon,” you said, bowing your head to him. “Thank you… for all you’ve done, Phainon. And I’m sorry. For the times when I was a burden.”

Phainon frowned, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. “You of all people don’t need to apologize. I’m sorry, for everything I put you through.”

He hesitated, then reached up and tugged at his cloak. The pin came loose with a soft snap of metal. He pulled free the badge.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into your hand. “Don’t let your Pa see it. He probably knows what it means.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh—but this is yours,” you said quickly. “What will you do without it?”

“Just take it.” He waved it off.

You held the metal like it might vanish if you loosened your grip. For a moment you only stared, lips parted, as though you’d been given something sacred. Looking at your joy, it was easy to imagine himself in his boyhood, picking wheat stalks from the ground, turning them over in his fingers as if they were signs left just for him. Like he’d found breadcrumbs to heaven before ever looking up.

You slipped the badge into the bodice of your dress, close to you heart, and wrapped your arms around yourself. A small, involuntary sound escaped you, almost a coo, full of comfort and ache in equal measure.

Handing you a piece of your hero, extracted from his own cloak was a strange feeling. Something twisted in Phainon’s chest and suddenly, the gift felt like a reckless mistake, as though he’d given away a precious resource without knowing its true worth.

When it was time, Phainon helped you into the carriage. You looked back once, hope pressed to your heart like debris packed into a wound.

Phainon tried to smile at you. You equally failed in the attempt. You started to cry, softly, no longer able to keep anything hidden. 

The horses rallied, the wheels turned and the road pulled you away. Phainon watched until the carriage vanished beyond the hills into obscurity. 

“So long,” he says your name, just to feel its sound inside his head.

Then he mounted his horse and rode in the opposite direction to rejoin the others, toward the future.

The wind rattled the empty clasp on his cloak and Phainon wondered how many things could be lost without ever being claimed in the first place.

.

“‘Not ideal.’” You push off the pillar, moving closer with deliberate grace. “Most people who see calamity in a scryglass use words like ‘terrifying’ or ‘impossible.’ You said ‘not ideal.’”

He considers you.

There’s something old in your eyes. The kind of old that comes from seeing too much, too clearly.

“You always eavesdrop on private musings?” he asks.

“Only the interesting ones.” A slight smile. “And you, Grand Master, are interesting.”

“Am I?”

“Very.” You stop a respectful distance away. Close enough to converse. Far enough to maintain boundaries. “You saw catastrophe and you’re calm.”

“Panicking won’t help.”

“No. But most people would anyway.”

He shrugs. “I’m not most people.”

That gets a reaction—a flicker of something in your expression. Curiosity. Approval.

“No,” you say quietly. “You’re not.”

“You’re not from Mondstadt,” he observes.

“Perceptive.”

“Occupational hazard.” He crosses his arms. “Hexenzirkel?”

A slight tilt of your head. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re standing in an environment that belongs to Barbeloth, watching me process a vision from her scryglass, and you’re not remotely surprised by any of it.” His mouth quirks. “Either Hexenzirkel or very lost.”

You laugh. “The former.”

“Thought so.” He studies you more carefully now. “I haven’t heard of you.”

“You wouldn’t have. I’m new.”

“New how?”

“Recently invited. Still establishing myself.” You meet his gaze directly. “Alice finds me interesting. Barbeloth took me as a student. The others are reserving judgment.”

“And what makes you interesting to Alice?”

“I see connections others miss.” You shrug. “Between events. Between people. Between possible futures and their causes.”

“Like Barbeloth,” he says.

“Similar methods. Different focus.” You glance at the scryglass. “I read the patterns that create it. The small choices that cascade into catastrophes. Or victories.”

“Sounds useful.”

“It can be.” Your eyes return to him. “Which is why I’m curious.”

“About?”

“What you’ll do.” You gesture vaguely toward where the scryglass sits. “You saw something. Something bad enough that even you called it ‘not ideal.’ But you’re not afraid.”

“Fear doesn’t help.”

“No. But it’s usually present anyway.” You move closer. “You saw possibilities. Plural. Which one concerned you most?”

He shouldn’t answer. Shouldn’t share information with someone he just met, Hexenzirkel or not.

But there’s something about your directness. Your lack of games.

“The one where I become a hero.”

You go very still.

“That troubles you,” you observe. “More than the catastrophe itself.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because that version of me stood there alone.” His jaw tightens slightly. “I was the hero, but Mondstadt would still be in danger. The whole of Teyvat. I never wanted to be a hero if it means the rest of the people have to suffer.”

Silence.

You’re looking at him differently now. Like you’re seeing something you didn’t expect.

“Most people would still take that future,” you say quietly. “Glory. Recognition. Being remembered as the one who defeated Dvalin. What an accomplishment, even for the Knight of Boreas.”

“Most people are idiots then.”

That startles a laugh out of you. “Strong words.”

“True words.” He shrugs. “I’m not interested in being remembered as the hero with such an outcome. I’m interested in making sure people don’t fall in the first place.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. “You really mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because ego exists. Because glory is seductive. Because—” You stop. Reassess. “You’re exactly as advertised.”

“And what’s that?”

“Incorruptible.” The word isn’t quite admiration. More like recognition. “You faced the Hexenzirkel trial without hesitation. They say that you embody Mondstadt’s ideals without pretense. I thought it was exaggeration.”

“It’s not.”

“No.” Your smile is slight. Knowing. “It’s not.”

“So,” you say after a pause. “What will you do?”

“About the vision?”

“About the possibilities.”

He considers. “I’ll prevent them.”

“Really?”

“All of them.” He’s certain. “Whatever causes that catastrophe—I’ll stop it.”

“And if stopping it requires sacrifice?”

“Then I’ll sacrifice.”

“What if the sacrifice is your glory? Your chance to be the hero?”

He meets your eyes. “Then it’s no sacrifice at all.”

Something shifts in your expression. “You could ignore it,” you say, voice lighter now. “The vision. Walk away. Let someone else handle it.”

“I won’t.”

“You could wait.”

“No time for that.”

“You could—”

“I’m going to handle it.” Simple. Final. “That’s what I do.”

You’re watching him with that calculating look again. “By yourself?”

“If necessary.”

“That seems risky.”

“Probably.”

“Potentially catastrophic.”

He grins. “Now you’re just trying to talk me out of it.”

“Am I?” Your eyes are bright. “Or am I confirming what you already decided?”

That lands. Because you’re right.

He made the decision the moment he looked into the scryglass. Everything since has just been processing how.

“You’re observant,” he says.

“I’m trained to be.” You pause. “Grand Master?”

“Varka.”

“Varka.” Your smile is warmer now. “Thank you for being interesting.”

You’re turning to leave when he speaks.

“Wait.”

You pause and glance back. “Yes?”

“You said you read patterns. The small choices that cascade into catastrophes or victories.” He tilts his head slightly. “What pattern do you see here? With me?”

You weren’t expecting that question.

Most people don’t ask. They either fear the answer or don’t want to know.

But he’s looking at you with genuine curiosity.

“You want to know what I see?” you ask.

“I want to know what you think.”

You turn fully to face him again.

“I see someone who makes decisions quickly but not recklessly,” you say slowly. “Who values people over glory. Who—” You reassess. “Who will change the course of many futures just by choosing differently than expected.”

“That’s vague.”

“Fate usually is.”

“And yet you’re the one who reads it.”

“I read possibilities. Tendencies.” You move closer again. “Not certainties. The moment you make a choice, everything shifts. New patterns emerge. That’s what makes you interesting.”

“How so?”

“Because you create more variations than most people.” Your eyes are engaged now. "Every decision you make opens new pathways. New possibilities. It’s like watching a tree branch in real-time.”

“Is that common?”

“No. Not like that.” You’re fully focused on him now. "Most people follow predictable patterns. Their choices are… limited by fear or desire or social pressure. But you—”

You gesture slightly. “You choose based on principle, always prioritizing the people you care about over your own fate. That’s rare. And it makes the future around you unusually fluid.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Sounds exhausting,” he says finally. “For you to track, I mean.”

You blink. “What?”

“If I’m constantly creating new branches. New possibilities. That must be difficult to read.”

No one has ever asked that before.

“It is,” you admit. “But it’s also fascinating.”

“How so?”

“Because I can’t predict you completely.” The words come out more honest than you intended. “And that’s refreshing.”

Something passes between you. Recognition, maybe. Mutual intrigue.

“Are you always this direct?” Varka asks.

“Are you?”

“Usually.”

“Then yes.” Your smile is slight. “I’m good at games if I have to be, but most of the time I find them tedious. If I want to know something, I ask. If I have an observation, I share it.”

“Even when it’s tactically disadvantageous?”

“Especially then.” You tilt your head. “Honesty is its own strategy. People don’t expect it. So they don’t know how to counter it.”

He chuckles. “I like that.”

“Do you?”

“A lot, yeah.” He’s studying you with open curiosity now. “How long have you been with the Hexenzirkel?”

“Officially? Six months. Unofficially... a while."

“And before that?”

“Before that I was—” You pause. Consider how much to share. “Wandering. Learning. Trying to understand why I could see patterns others couldn’t. Trying to exist outside of my connection to Khaenri'ah.”

“Must’ve been lonely.”

The observation catches you off-guard. “Why do you say that?”

“Because seeing things others don’t usually is.” He shrugs. “People don’t like being told their futures. Or having their patterns read. I imagine that made connection difficult.”

He’s right.

Uncomfortably right.

“It did,” you admit quietly. "Until I found Barbeloth. She understood. And Alice—” You smile slightly. “Alice finds unusual things interesting, which helps.”

“And now you’re here. Reading my patterns.”

“Now I’m here,” you agree.

There’s a pause. Then he says: “Do you want to walk?”

You blink. “What?”

“Walk. With me.” He gestures vaguely. “Unless you have somewhere else to be.”

You shouldn’t.

You have studies. Research. A dozen things Barbeloth expects you to complete.

But—

“Alright,” you hear yourself say.

His smile is warm. “Good.”

You’re not sure how it happens, but somehow you’re walking with the Knight of Boreas beside you, discussing everything and nothing.

“What’s a typical day for you?” Varka asks at one point.

“Reading star charts. Studying Barbeloth’s notes. Occasionally attending tea parties where everyone speaks in riddles and I try to decipher what they actually mean.” You glance at him. “You?”

“Training. Meetings. Paperwork. Fighting. More meetings. Leading. Trying to relax.” He grins. “Occasionally succeeding.”

“You care about your people.”

“They’re not my people. We’re all Mondstadt’s people,” he corrects gently. “I just have more responsibility for their safety.”

“Still. Most leaders see subordinates as tools.”

He hums. “Then they’re terrible leaders.”

You almost smile. “Fair point.”

The conversation flows easily. Too easily.

You find yourself asking questions you normally wouldn’t. About his training methods, his philosophy on leadership, what he does when he’s not being the Grand Master.

Varka asks about your studies. Your techniques. Your magic. What it’s like to see the future in fragments. Whether you ever wish you couldn’t.

“Sometimes,” you admit. “Knowing possibilities without being able to prevent all of them is frustrating.”

“I imagine.”

“But it’s also a gift. I can guide people toward different outcomes.”

“Yeah,” he says.

You’re walking close together. Close enough that you can see the details. The glint in his eyes when he laughs. The scars on his face. The breadth of his shoulders that speaks to years of combat training.

He’s just a normal man, but somehow, persistently, he’s anything but.

You're aware of him in a way that's distracting.

Unusual.

You read people constantly. Assess threats, potential, patterns. It's automatic.

But with him it’s different. Less clinical. More—

“I got a question,” Varka says suddenly.

You refocus. “Yes?”

“The magic. Your abilities.” He pauses. “What’s it like? Reading fate. Seeing possibilities. Does it—” He stops. Shakes his head slightly. “Sorry. That’s probably—”

“Invasive?” you offer.

“I was going to say 'none of my business.'” But he's watching you with genuine curiosity. “Though I am curious.”

There’s something disarming about his honesty. The way he just asks.

Most people either fear your abilities. In the past they wanted to exploit them.

He just wants to understand.

“It's...” You search for words. “Like seeing a river with infinite branches. Each choice creates a new current. I can see where the currents lead. Which ones end in rapids. Which ones in calm water.”

“And you navigate people toward calm water?”

“Not necessarily. Depends on the people.” You grin. Almost apologetically which is confusing on its own. You’re not sorry for who you are. For how you act. What you do. Not anymore. “But yes. I do. When I can.” You tilt your head slightly. “When they’ll listen.”

“Do they usually listen?”

“They do. If they like what they learnt. Or if they don't know any better.” A slight smile. “But some people prefer their own currents. Even when they lead to rapids."

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Can’t fault that logic.”

You're both quiet for a moment.

Then he says, voice lower: “You’re confusing me.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks almost surprised he said it aloud. But he doesn’t take it back.

“You’re confusing me,” he repeats. “Can’t quite—” He gestures vaguely. “Figure you out.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It’s unusual.” His eyes are direct. “Most people I can read pretty quickly. Assess their intentions. Understand their patterns. But you—” He stops. “I don’t know if you’re being strategic or genuine. If this—” He gestures between you. “—is calculated or spontaneous.”

The observation is sharper than you expected.

Most people can’t tell when you're strategizing. Can’t see the layers beneath the layers.

But he’s watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve.

It’s unsettling.

And oddly thrilling.

“Maybe I’ll give you a demonstration,” you say, voice more playful now. “In the future. So you can see for yourself.”

“A demonstration of what?”

“What I can do. When I’m being strategic.” You take a step closer. “Versus when I'm being genuine.”

His breath catches.

“Mm.” The sound is rough. Like he’s momentarily lost words.

You smile. “Just curious, Grand Master?”

"Just curious,” he confirms. But his voice is lower now.

You reach out and tap his chest with one finger.

“You do know,” you say, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, “we’re not supposed to share our secrets with outsiders.”

His hand comes up and catches your wrist.

“You don’t need to act like that,” he says quietly.

You go very still. “Act like what?”

“Like the mysterious witch. Playing games. Testing reactions.” His thumb brushes your pulse point, probably accidentally, but it sends heat up your arm anyway. “I know being a witch can’t be all power and secrets.”

His perceptiveness catches you off-guard.

Cracks something in your carefully maintained composure.

You almost tell him.

Almost say: They called me a freak. When I was young. When I couldn’t control what I saw. When I’d predict things and people would look at me with fear and revulsion.

Almost say: I’ve spent years learning to be strategic because genuine got me hurt.

Almost say: You’re the first person in a very long time who’s made me want to be genuine again.

Instead you pull your hand back. Step away slightly.

“Well,” you say, voice carefully controlled. “We do live longer than others.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” You pause. “My ancestors experienced the Cataclysm. Actively. I carry their memories. Their abilities. Their—” You stop. "Even if I’m younger than that, the weight of these events are present.”

Understanding crosses his face. “That sounds lonely."

“It is.” The admission slips out before you can stop it. “People I care about age. Die. And I just—” You gesture. “Continue.”

“But you’re familiar with that by now,” he says. Not quite a question.

“Yes.” You smile slightly. "I’m okay.” And you are. You have a purpose now, finally understand that being different is a good thing. “A significant part of Teyvat’s older than you, if you think about it. Archons. Adepti. Witches.”

“Sounds about right,” Varka says, and his rumbling laugh makes your heart lighter immediately. “And here I am. Just a simple man.”

“Always the humble one,” you add with a hint of teasing.

“Oh, I have my qualities.” His mouth quirks. “Just stating facts.”

You’re surprised to find yourself continuing: "As for the demonstration. I would need to shape it properly. Choose the right moment. The right circumstances.”

“To show me your magic?”

“To show you the difference.” You meet his eyes. “Between calculation and truth. Since you can’t tell with me.” You smile. “Yet.”

“And when would that be?”

“When the time is right.” You’re very aware of the space between you. How easy it would be to close it. How dangerous that would be. “I’m patient. And I like my demonstrations to be memorable.”

His eyes darken slightly. “I’ll look forward to it.”

The words hang between you.

You should leave. Should step back. Create distance. Remember your role. Your purpose.

But you’re standing there like an idiot, like you’re the one who’s been bewitched, pulse racing, completely thrown by a simple man who asks honest questions and holds your wrist like you’re something precious instead of something dangerous.

You continue talking. About lighter topics this time. You’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to make genuine jokes instead of just participating in conversations that merely exist for entertainment value.

Both have their purpose, and you wouldn’t erase the latter, but you feel different. And so you stay in this moment for longer than you usually would have.

You catch Varka’s gaze more often than not, and something contemplative and wondering exists in his expression. Normally, you would sense something. With him, it’s just pure instinct.

“How long have we been walking?” you ask after a while.

He glances around. “Three hours? Maybe more?”

That’s not what you sensed.

When you left your studies to observe the scryglass reading, you’d seen possibilities. Brief interaction. Maybe ten minutes of conversation. Then separation.

Not this.

Not hours of easy dialogue and comfortable silence and the kind of connection that usually takes weeks to establish.

“What is it?” Varka asks, noticing your expression.

“Nothing. Just—” You stop. “I didn’t expect this.”

“Expect what?”

“This conversation. This—” You gesture between you. “I saw possibilities earlier. Paths. Outcomes. This wasn’t one of them.”

His eyebrows rise. “You predicted our interaction?”

“I sensed tendencies. Probabilities.” You're still processing. “Brief conversation. Professional distance. Separation. That was the most likely path.”

“And instead?”

“Instead we’ve been talking and I can’t—” You stop, frustrated with yourself. “I can’t read what happens next.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. You’re not used to this. “It’s disorienting.”

“For what it’s worth," Varka says, “I’m glad the path changed.”

You look at him.

He’s present and completely unafraid of witches or futures or the fact that you can read patterns he doesn’t even know he’s creating.

“So am I,” you admit quietly.

The words hang between you.

“You should probably get back,” Varka says after a moment. “To your studies. Before Barbeloth wonders where you went.”

“Probably.” But you don’t move.

Neither does he.

“There’s something I want to give you,” you hear yourself say.

“What?”

You reach into your coat and pull something free.

A talisman. Small. Intricately carved. Pulsing faintly with energy.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Insurance.” You press it into his hand. “Against bad possibilities.”

“Magic?”

“Astrology.” You fold his fingers around it. “It won’t prevent catastrophe. But it’ll help align circumstances. Make favorable outcomes more likely.”

“You’re giving me probability manipulation.”

“On a minor scale.” You’re very aware of how close you’re standing. “Wear it. Keep it close. When you face whatever’s coming—it might matter.”

He studies the talisman. Then you.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because—” You stop. Choose your words carefully. “Because you’re going to face something dangerous. And because the patterns around you matter. And because—”

You can’t finish.

Can’t say: Because in the span of a few hours you’ve become someone I want to see survive.

Can’t say: Because you’re the first person who’s made me lose track of patterns in years.

Can’t say: Because something about you feels significant in a way I can’t calculate.

“Because you’re worth it,” you finish instead.

His expression shifts.

“I’ll keep it,” he says. “Thanks.”

He tucks it away. Over his heart.

You say nothing, but something in your chest tightens.

“Come back,” you say. “When it’s done.”

“Planning to.”

“I’ll be here.”

“In Mondstadt?”

“Near enough.” Your eyes are knowing. “I’m good at finding people when I need to.”

He grins. “I believe you.”

“I really should go,” you say.

“Yes.”

One more pause, full of things neither of you are saying.

Then you step back, creating distance before you do something foolish.

“Good luck.” Your voice is softer than you intend. Softer than you usually allow yourself to be.

“You too.” He’s smiling. “With the Hexenzirkel. With your studies. With—” A pause. “Everything.”

Then you’re leaving, walking away before you can change your mind.

Before you can analyze why your heart is beating faster than it should.

Before you can process why every pattern around him feels suddenly, dangerously significant.

You don’t look back.

(But you want to.)

— ✦ —

Mondstadt welcomes the expedition’s return with the kind of celebration that only the city of freedom can manage: joyful in a way that makes even the normally composed knights grin like children.

Varka has been back for days.

Days of debriefings and reports and Jean’s carefully controlled relief that he’s alive and whole.

Days of being clapped on the back by knights, of citizens thanking him for things they don’t fully understand, of feeling the weight of years away settle into something that resembles normalcy.

He’s exhausted.

But he’s home.

The celebration is held near the cathedral and the Knights of Favonius headquarters.

Varka stands at the edge of the plaza, thinking about the things he saw in the memory bubbles. He watches citizens laughing, life continuing as it should.

“Entertaining, isn’t it?”

He knows that voice.

He turns.

You’re standing a few paces away, and the first thing he notices is that you’re different.

Your presence is more assured. The way you hold yourself: confident without arrogance, powerful without display. Your expression is more composed.

But your eyes are the same. Watching him with that particular focus that suggests you’ve been observing longer than he realized.

“You’re here,” he says, his mouth quirking slightly.

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” You move closer, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. “Alice and Nicole came here anyway. And I had personal interest in attending.”

“Personal interest?”

“You’re back,” you reply, settling on the truth. “I wanted to see if you’d kept your promise.”

“Which promise?”

“To come back.”

Varka huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t break promises.”

“No.” You’re beside him now, close enough that he can smell something floral and strange. Magic, probably. “You don’t.”

There’s a pause.

“You’ve changed,” he observes.

“Years do that.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He looks at you properly now. “You’re more established. Your reputation—even I’ve heard it, all the way in Nod-Krai. The Hexenzirkel’s newest prodigy.”

“Flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s not flattery. It’s observation.”

You smile. “Then yes. I’ve grown. Learned. Become what I needed to become.” A pause. “You’ve changed too.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.” Your eyes trace his face, cataloging differences, reading stories written in scars and lines. “You’re harder. Battle-worn. But still…” You tilt your head. “Still fundamentally you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good.” No hesitation. “The world has enough people who let experience corrupt them. You remained incorruptible.”

The word echoes from years ago. From your first meeting.

“I heard about Nod-Krai,” you continue. Something shifts in your expression. Warmth. Pride. “Congratulations, Grand Master.”

“Varka,” he corrects automatically.

“Varka.” Your smile is slight. “Welcome home.”

The celebration swirls around you, but there’s a pocket of quiet between you. The kind that forms when two people exist in their own shared space regardless of surroundings.

“I learned a few things through Alice and Nicole, but I’d love to hear the whole story from you. I’m particularly curious about certain individuals you faced along the way.”

“Huh. Really?”

“Mm.” You nod, smiling broadly at him. Without cunning this time because you’re just genuinely happy to see him again. “Alice and Nicole both know to recount events…in their way. But I think you’re the better storyteller, Varka.“ It’s the first time you‘ve addressed him by name without him correcting you, and he notices immediately.

“Then I guess I gotta do that. Can’t refuse such an esteemed Hexenzirkel member.” He chuckles. “Can’t risk our alliance. Sharing knowledge benefits both sides, doesn’t it?” There is a challenge both in his voice and his eyes.

“It isn’t about that,” you say, more reluctant than usual.

“Yeah. I know,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest, grin growing broader. He’s clearly enjoying seeing you more affected than before.

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t certain you’d actually follow through,” you declare lightly, settling on a tone that’s both provocative and sincere. “Most people talk about bold action. Few execute it.”

“I’m not most people.” Hearing him echo his own words from years ago after everything affects you more than you would ever admit out loud.

“No.” Your eyes meet his. “You’re really not.”

There’s weight in those words.

He’s about to mention it when someone calls his name—a knight needing his attention for something official. He excuses himself with an apologetic glance.

You wave him off. “Go. Be the Grand Master. I’ll be here.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He handles the interruption. When he returns you’re exactly where you said you’d be, watching the celebration with an expression he can’t quite read.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, standing beside you, arms crossed over his chest and glancing at you with an expression that you can feel before you even look at him.

You look at him, momentarily lost in his eyes. Have they always been like this? Honest and warm, yes, but the intensity catches you off guard.

You focus on the conversation again. “That memory is fascinating.” You gesture at children playing in the plaza. “I heard about the memory bubbles. And they show what happened. Truth. But they’re still filtered through Alice’s perception of what matters. What’s worth preserving.”

“Your point?”

“Memory is never objective. We remember what resonates. What teaches us. What changes us.” You look at him. “I wonder what you’ll remember most. About the expedition.”

He considers, looking into the distance.

“The people,” he says finally, meeting your gaze again. “The ones we saved. The ones we lost. The ones out of reach now. The moments where everything could have gone wrong but didn’t. The friends I made. The alliances I forged.”

A pause.

“And wondering what was happening here. If Mondstadt was safe. If—”

He stops.

You’re watching him with that knowing expression.

“If I was alright?” you finish quietly.

“That too if I’m being honest.”

The admission hangs between you.

“I was fine,” you say. “Busy. Learning. Growing.” A slight smile. “Thinking about certain straightforward Grand Masters who don’t fear witches.”

“You’re not that scary.”

“I’m terrifying.”

“You’re intriguing.”

“Same thing for some people.”

He laughs. “I missed this.”

“This?”

“You. This. Conversations that don’t feel like strategy or leadership or the usual social gathering. Just—” He gestures. “Honest.”

Your expression softens. “I’ve missed it too.”

The celebration is starting to wind down. Some people drifting home. Others settling into quieter conversations.

“Come with me,” you say suddenly.

“Where?”

“Somewhere quieter.” You’re already moving toward the edge of the plaza. “Unless you’d rather stay and be celebrated more?”

“Barbatos, no.”

You laugh. Lead him away from the crowds, toward one of the empty side streets near the headquarters. The noise fades behind you.

Then you stop and raise one hand.

The air around you shifts. Colors becoming more saturated. Sounds muffling to pleasant white noise. The sensation of being enclosed without walls.

A bubble.

“Magic?” Varka asks.

“Something like it.” You lower your hand. “A small pocket. Private conversation space. Alice taught me the technique. Though mine are significantly less elaborate than hers.”

“And you created this because?”

“Because I wanted to talk. Actually talk. Without interruption.” You meet his eyes. “Is that alright?”

“More than alright.” He looks around. The bubble is subtle, just enough separation from reality to ensure privacy. “Though you said no magic.”

“I said no tricks.” Your smile is slight. “This isn’t a trick. It’s a courtesy.”

“Fair enough.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, standing in this pocket of reality you’ve carved out. Close enough to touch but not touching. The years between you and now seems suspended in this space.

“I kept it,” he says.

Your head tilts. “Kept what?”

He reaches into his shirt and pulls out the talisman.

Your breath catches.

“You—” You stare. “All this time?”

“All this time.” He holds it carefully. The carving is worn now, smoothed by years of contact. But it still pulses faintly. “Through everything. I kept it close.”

“Did it help?”

“I’m alive.” He looks at you. “And we came back. We’re home. So yes. I think it helped.”

You’re very still, looking at the talisman in his hand like it means something more than probability manipulation.

“May I?” you ask quietly.

He hands it over.

You hold it gently, run your fingers over the worn carving. Your expression is complicated. Surprise and something softer underneath.

“You were supposed to keep it safe,” you murmur. “As insurance. I didn’t think you’d—” You stop. “Most people would have lost this. Or stored it somewhere safe. Not carried it through active combat.”

“It was important.”

You look up at him. Searching.

“Why?” you ask.

“Because you gave it to me,” he says. “Because you said it might matter. Because—” He stops. “I thought about you,” he continues. “Out there. Wondered if you were alright. If you’d advanced in the Hexenzirkel. If you ever thought about—” He gestures vaguely. “This.”

“This?”

“Us. That conversation. The way you looked at me when I said I wasn’t interested in being the hero.”

“I thought about it,” you admit quietly. “More than I should have. You’re—” You struggle for words. Rare for you. “You’re difficult to forget.”

“So are you.”

“I’m a witch. Being memorable is occupational.”

“You’re memorable because you’re you.” He takes a step closer. “Nothing to do with magic. Everything to do with—” He stops. “The way you see things. The way you saw me. Just as someone trying to do the right thing.”

Your hand is still holding the talisman. His hand comes up and covers yours.

“You’re not afraid of us,” you say, voice soft. “The Hexenzirkel. You never were.”

“Why would I be?”

“Most people are. We’re powerful. Unknown. We’ve done things people consider morally ambiguous at best.”

“The Hexenzirkel is also the reason I had information I needed. Resources that saved lives. An alliance that worked. Still works.” He’s close now. Very close. “And you—”

His voice drops. “You gave me something to carry. To keep me safe. You cared. That’s not something to fear. That’s something to treasure.”

You’re looking at him like he’s just said something revolutionary.

The space between you is almost nothing now.

“I should give this back,” you say, still holding the talisman.

“Keep it.”

“It’s yours.”

“Then keep it for me.” His hand tightens over yours. “For later. When I leave again. When you leave. When—” He stops. “Keep it. Please.”

Something in your expression cracks.

“Alright,” you whisper.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull back.

You don’t.

When his lips meet yours, the bubble around you pulses once more, magic responding to emotion, perhaps. Or just the universe acknowledging something significant.

The kiss starts careful. Testing.

His hand is still cupping your face, your free hand finding his shoulder.

But then something breaks.

Maybe it’s years of distance. Maybe it’s the relief of reunion. Maybe it’s just that you’ve both been holding back for too long.

His hand slides into your hair, gripping, pulling you closer. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, the talisman pressed between your joined hands, pulsing warm against your palm.

The kiss turns desperate. Hungry.

Years of wondering. Years of waiting. Years of catching glimpses in star charts that never showed you this.

His other hand spans your waist, pulling you against him. You can feel his heart hammering. Feel the barely controlled strength in how he holds you. Feel the way he’s shaking slightly like he can’t quite believe this is real.

You make a sound against his mouth, half gasp, half something more desperate.

He groans in response. The sound vibrates through you.

When he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, you forget how to breathe.

Forget how to think.

Forget everything except the taste of him, the feel of him, the overwhelming rightness of this moment.

Your back hits something—the wall of a building, probably. You didn’t even realize you’d moved.

He presses closer, one hand still in your hair, the other sliding from your waist to your hip, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You kiss him harder, pour years of uncertainty and longing and carefully maintained distance into it.

He meets you measure for measure. Giving as much as taking. Present and focused and completely undone.

When you finally break apart, his forehead drops to yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” he manages, voice wrecked, “since you interrupted my private musings.”

“I’ve wanted to do that,” you counter breathlessly, “since you said you weren’t interested in being a hero.”

He laughs. “We’re both idiots then.”

“Seems that way.”

Another kiss. Softer but no less intense.

When you separate this time, you tuck the talisman away. Over your heart. Mirroring where he kept it.

His eyes track the movement, darken further.

“Dangerous," he murmurs, “putting that there.”

“Is that so?” you ask innocently. “And why’s that?”

“Because now I know exactly where it is." His hand comes up. traces over where the talisman rests. “And I’m going to be thinking about it.”

Heat floods through you. “That’s the point.”

“Witch.”

“Simple man.”

You’re both smiling despite the heavy breathing and shaking hands and the fact that you’re both clearly affected beyond rational thought.

“We should talk,” you say. “About what this means. The complications. The politics. Your position. Mine. The Hexenzirkel. The knights. Everything—”

“Later,” Varka says.

“Later?”

“Yes.” His smile is warm. “Right now I just wanna enjoy this. Enjoy you. Without strategy or politics or complications.”

You study him. Then nod. “Alright. Later.”

When you finally pull apart, his hand comes up to cup your face.

“I got a question,” he murmurs.

“Another one?” But you’re smiling.

“The branches. The patterns.” His thumb brushes your cheekbone. “Did you see me? While I was gone? In your readings?”

You go very still.

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” you say quietly.

“So you didn’t see what happened to me? What would happen today?”

“Only vague impressions.” You can’t quite meet his eyes. “Glimpses. Possibilities. Nothing concrete.”

That’s not entirely true.

The truth is you looked. Constantly. Obsessively.

Tried to track his patterns across distance and time and the chaos of one event following the next.

But the branches were clouded.

All you got were fragments. Him fighting. Him leading. Him alive.

Never enough detail. Never enough certainty.

It drove you half-mad.

“I had to rely on reports,” you admit. “On what others told me. News that filtered back. I didn’t—” You stop. “I couldn’t see clearly. It was frustrating.”

“Good.”

You pull back to look at him. “Good?”

“I like it better this way.” His eyes are warm. “Not being predetermined. Just—" He gestures between you. "This. Spontaneous. Real.”

“You realize I’m a fate-reader, right? That’s literally what I do.”

“I know.” His smile is knowing. “But maybe with us, you don’t have to.”

The words settle in your chest.

“That’s terrifying,” you admit.

“Is it?”

“Yes.” You’re being more honest than you should. "I’ve spent my whole life reading patterns. Preparing for possibilities. And with you I’m just—” You gesture helplessly. “Blind. Uncertain. I don’t know what happens next.”

“Neither do I.” He’s still holding your face. “And I’m fine with that.”

“How can you be fine with that?”

“Because some things are worth not knowing." His voice drops. “Worth experiencing without prediction. Worth—” He leans in again. “Discovering.”

Then he’s kissing you again.

Deeper this time. Like he’s proving a point.

And you let him.

Eventually, the bubble dissolves. The street returns to normal, sounds of the distant celebration, cool night air, stars overhead.

But something between you remains changed.

“What will you do now?” you ask as you start walking back toward the plaza. “Now that you’re back?”

“Rebuild. Reorganize the Knights of Favonius. Help Jean with whatever catastrophes accumulated in my absence.” He glances at you. “The usual.”

“No more expeditions?”

“Not immediately.” He holds your gaze. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to see you again. Before you vanish for another few years.”

“I’d like that too.”

You’re both quiet for a moment.

“You know,” Varka says, and there is something mischievous in his gaze now. “If I was afraid of powerful witches, I wouldn’t be standing here wanting to kiss you again.”

You laugh. “Are you asking permission?”

“I’m stating intent.”

“Bold.”

“Honest.”

This time you kiss him. Then pull back before he can deepen it.

“Tease,” Varka accuses.

“Witch,” you counter.

You‘re both smiling.

At the edge of the plaza, you pause.

“I meant what I said,” you tell him. “About seeing you again. I want—” You stop. “I’d like to explore this. Whatever this is. If you’re willing.”

“I’m willing.” No hesitation. “Though I’ll warn you—I’m not easy. I have responsibilities. Duties. Mondstadt comes first.”

“I know.” Your smile is knowing. “That’s part of why I’m interested. You don’t compromise on what matters. I respect that.”

“Well.” He chuckles. “I suppose you’re not exactly simple either. Hexenzirkel politics. Your growing reputation. Whatever mysterious projects Alice has you working on.”

“True.”

He squeezes your hand once before releasing it.

“No clear future plans?”

“From you? Probably inevitable." His grin is knowing. “From me? I prefer paths that allow some adaptability.”

“That’s going to drive me insane.”

“Good.” He leans down, kisses you once more. “Keep you on your toes.”

You’re about to respond when someone calls his name again—Jean, this time, looking apologetic but insistent.

Duty calls.

“Go,” you say.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be around.” You step back. “I’m good at finding people when I want to.”

He grins. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Good.” Your smile is warm. Real. “Then you’ll remember to look for me too.”

“Always.”

Before you leave, you pause. Think about whether to share what’s been on your mind the whole evening.

“Varka?”

“Yes?”

“You said something once. About fate. About seeing possible outcomes but believing in shaping your own destiny. Protecting people you care about.” Your eyes are bright in the darkness. “Do you still believe that?”

“Always have.”

“Good.” You’re almost gone now. “Because I’d like to be one of those people.”

“You already are.”

Silence stretches.

Then, so quiet he almost misses it, you say: “Good.”

And you’re gone, leaving him standing at the edge of the plaza, heart full, already counting the moments until he sees you again.

Jean calls again. He goes.

But his hand finds his chest where the talisman used to rest.

It’s with you now. Close to your heart.

As it should be.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. More Varka to follow soon.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Chapter I | The horse and the infant

Chapter II | Just a man (in the works!)

Chapter III | Full speed ahead

Chapter IV | Open arms

Chapter V | Warrior of the Mind

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈 | 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Chapter VI | Nous

Chapter VII | Survive

Chapter VIII | Remember them

Chapter IX | This is my goodbye

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Chapter X | Storm

Chapter XI | Luck runs out

Chapter XII | Keep your friends close

Chapter XIII | Ruthlessness

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐄𝐀 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Chapter XIV | Puppeteer

Chapter XV | Wouldn't you like

Chapter XVI | Done for

Chapter XVII | There are other ways

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Chapter XVIII | The Underworld

Chapter XIX | No longer you

Chapter XX | Monster

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Chapter XXI | Suffering

Chapter XXII | Different beast

Chapter XXIII | Hysilens

Chapter XXIV | Mutiny

Chapter XXV | Thunder bringer

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Chapter XXVI | Legendary

Chapter XXVII | Little wolf

Chapter XXVIII | We'll be fine

Chapter XXIX | Love in paradise

Chapter XXX | God games

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Chapter XXXI | Not sorry for loving you

Chapter XXXII | Dangerous

Chapter XXXIII | Charybdis

Chapter XXXIV | Get in the water

Chapter XXXV | Six hundred strike

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐋𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐀

Chapter XXXVI | The Challenge

Chapter XXXVII | Hold them down

Chapter XXXVIII | Khaslana

Chapter XXXIX | I can't help but wonder

Chapter XXXX | Would you fall in love with me again

Art! : | 1 |

Memes! : | 1 |

©Sango-komi | Please do not re-post, translate, plagiarize, or use my works to train AI

The first time Phainon fell in love with you it came as no surprise to him. 

It was in February of your Spring semester, Junior year at Okhema City University. Coincidentally, it was Valentine’s day and the two of you were spending your third year without a date moping over your lack of love lives. It was sort of a tradition at that point, Phainon wouldn’t pursue anyone in hopes you would be free and you would be devastated over not having a date even though you made no effort to talk to anyone other than your friends.

You came up with the idea freshman year, you’d sent out a message in the group chat of your dorm’s floor, inviting anyone without a Valentine’s date to your room to watch movies and wallow in self pity. Phainon was the only one to show up

Just like last year and the previous year before that, you hosted Phainon at your apartment (previously your dorm room since your roommate, Cipher, had a partner to spend her Valentine’s day with both years), while he provided the snacks and alcohol. It was nothing short of a pity party—well at least that’s what you liked to call it. Phainon, however, couldn’t imagine any better way to spend the holiday than with you. He’s tried, he’s thought about asking someone else out before (usually when he’s feeling hopeless and insecure and convinced you’ll never see him in the same light that he sees you) but then your bright smile and shining eyes flash across his mind and it slaps him right back to reality every time. 

Maybe next year Phainon will finally muster up the courage to suggest going out somewhere for Valentine’s Day instead of spending it cooped up in your studio apartment.

For now, the blue eyed man would have to be content with you yelling at the screen while a romcom played, going on about how the real world doesn’t work like that and the unrealistic expectations it sets for modern day romance. Phainon couldn’t help but question his own morals and sanity because he finds your bitterness and your sense of cynicism endearing. Any time you would look over at him you would give him an exasperated look and huff.

“Why are you smiling like that, this isn’t funny! It’s a serious issue, Phainon! Take this seriously or I’m kicking you out and then we’ll both be forced to spend this stupid day alone. Do you want that? Do you want me to be miserable and alone?”

Phainon let out a soft chuckle and put his hands up to surrender, although he was never putting up a fight to begin with—to him you’ll always be right. “I believe you, really, no argument here. What? A guy can’t smile because he’s enjoying himself?”

Your eyes narrowed at him in suspicion, scanning his own blue ones for just a moment too long, flustering the tall man and making him break eye contact first to reach for his drink and finish it off in one gulp. You sigh next to him and reach for your own drink, mirroring his actions as you drained your glass of all its contents, the ice had long since melted. Phainon let out another chuckle as you scrunch up your nose in disgust, the drink had to have been watered down thanks to the ice and he couldn’t imagine that it tasted all that great. 

The blue eyed college junior briefly thought the two of you were quite the pathetic looking pair tonight, if anyone were to walk into your apartment at this moment they’d definitely look at the both of you in pity. Or they may look at Phainon like he’s insane, depending on the person, because why the hell did he look so sad spending the evening with the one person who held all of his affection? Why the hell hadn’t he asked you out yet? Well the reason was simple to Phainon, he didn’t want to ruin the friendship you had built, he was okay with this, just being your friend and getting to spend time with you like this. 

He’s content just getting to be in your presence—or at least that’s what he’s been telling himself.

“Whatever, I need another drink. Want one?” You got up on unsteady legs, words just a little slurred.

How many drinks had the two of you had? Making a mental tally, Phainon came to the conclusion that it’d been far too many. He sat up from where he was slumped into the couch and latched himself onto your (his) oversized hoodie and tugged on you. Your unsteady grounding and his miscalculated strength resulted in you losing your footing completely and tumbling into him, your elbow lodging itself into his rib cage and successfully knocking the wind out of him.

You seemed to hardly notice as you let out an annoyed screech. “What the hell was that for? Let me go, I want another drink!”

Phainon shook his head, still trying to catch his breath—it was hard when your squirming made it so you were still knocking your elbow into his ribs. You’d let out another whine but cut yourself short when you noticed the pained look on his face and then scanned your eyes over his body until you finally notice the way your elbow was digging into his side. You pulled back and gave him this slightly guilty and apologetic look. You shifted and Phainon had thought you were finally going to climb off of him but he clearly underestimated just how comfortable you were with invading his personal space when you were this drunk.

You shifted and promptly straddled Phainon’s waist, having set yourself on his lap. Suddenly the temperature in the room seemed to skyrocket, he could feel the way his cheeks blazed—sweat threatening to spill down his temples. He wasn’t used to you being the one to invade his personal space, it was usually the other way around. You clearly had no clue that Phainon was having an internal crisis because you lean in even closer and lightly slap your hands onto his cheeks, squeezing them together.

His eyes widened at your actions and you just gave him a furrowed brow, no nonsense look—how the hell was he supposed to take you seriously when you looked so adorable? His heart started to race at an alarming rate, what could be going on in that pretty and usually brilliant head of yours? Your gaze was slightly unsteady, pupils dilated and shaky. Yeah, you were definitely feeling all of those drinks.

“I need you to make me a promise, Phai. If we’re still doing this shit when we’re thirty years old; I need you to either put me out of my misery or you and I should just get married to each other.” You let go of his cheeks and held out your pinky for him to take, it meant you were serious about this—it’d always been one of his favorite quirks about you, always taking your pinky promises very seriously. “What d’you say? Deal?”

Something about that moment shifted everything in Phainon’s head and in his heart as he held out his own pinky to wrap around your own and smiled at you. “Deal.”

Yeah. He was definitely head over heels for you. 

*****

The following Valentine’s Day Phainon hadn’t seen or heard from you all day, which was unusual for you because he normally woke up to a text of you either detailing your dream the night before or complaining about your morning drink always somehow being off because the new barista at your favorite coffee shop had no idea what they were doing. You refused to go anywhere else, though, stating it still had the best pastries in town and there was always a chance that the owner would be at bar and according to you his drinks were always a ‘godsent’. So, he figured you two were still on for your V-day tradition. 

He picked up the usual snacks and usual mixes/alcohol for your favorite drink of choice and headed over to your place after classes. 

As he’s turning into a guest parking spot, you were getting out of your own car with shopping bags. At first he thought maybe you got extra snacks for that night’s movie marathon but then he realized, those were clothing store bags. Phainon thought nothing of it, getting out of his car and calling over to you. You stopped dead in your tracks and looked over your shoulder in utter surprise.

“Phai? Oh my god, you have perfect timing, I need your help with something, come.” You didn’t give him the time to respond or to even question you, really, as you dragged him towards your apartment and shoved the bags in his hands to fish out your keys and unlock the door. “You need to help me pick out an outfit. You’re a guy, you know what other guys will like. I need to make a good impression.”

You were rambling about something but Pahinon was so lost, trying to catch up but having a hard time keeping up. He didn’t want to interrupt you though, whatever you were going on about was important, he could tell by the way your eyes were twinkling and in the way your voice was slightly higher and in the way you smiled softly—just enough to make the corner of your eyes crinkle a bit. He wasn’t paying attention to what you were saying because he was too busy being mesmerized by how you were saying it. 

He’s only brought back when you look at him expectantly and Phainon has to give you a sheepish smile. “Sorry, you lost me there…”

“Phainon.” You whine out his name in annoyance and huff. “Cliffnotes version, I have a date tonight that I really need to go well and you’re helping me pick out an outfit from the clothes I bought today. Got it?”

Suddenly Phainon was crashing back to earth, your words violently pulled him from the clouds and sent him plummeting without a parachute. The landing hurt, his chest felt as if it were caving in on itself, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to clutch it in pain but resisted the urge by tightening his grip on the bags he was still carrying. The bag that coincidentally held the very clothes you needed help with for the date he was blindsided with. 

“A date? So, no movie night then, huh?” He does a surprisingly good job in keeping his voice steady, it even comes out light and nonchalant.

To your credit, you do look pretty guilty, the exasperation completely disappeared. “Yeah, no movie night…You understand, right?”

He nodded his head almost immediately, the simple gesture enough to wash away all your worries. It was only until you finally took the bags from Phainon’s hands and went to your room to put on the first outfit to “model” for him, did the white haired man let his face completely drop. His stomach was twisting so fiercely that he’s sure it’ll be in knots by the time you come out.

That was the first time you broke Phainon’s heart.

The second time Phainon fell in love with you he wasn’t quite expecting it.

It was on your graduation day from OCU, you all had just raised your caps in celebration and were filtering out of your seats to meet up with all your loved ones that had come to see the big milestone. Phainon didn’t have anyone here today, the only person he had was also graduating from her own university on the same day, so of course her family was there with her. He was content with waiting for his friends to finish so he could congratulate each and everyone of them individually. He had it all planned, go for his diploma early to congratulate anyone who was there in line too, then once he finished with that he would scan the crowd to see if anyone had finished and if not he would talk to a few of his professors before trying again. 

It was a simple and solid plan in Phainon’s humble opinion.

You, however, clearly had a different agenda for him because the moment everyone started to disperse your hand was enclosing around his wrist and you were tugging him towards a group of people who mostly all had some sort of similar feature to yours. It was your family, he quickly realized. You knew about how his family had died in a huge town fire when he was in high school and only had his childhood best friend and her family. 

You also knew about how they wouldn’t be able to make it there to celebrate with him. 

You happily bounded over to the group that all greeted you with smiles and congratulations. Phainon watched you closely, you had often talked about your family so he gathered you were close with them but hearing versus seeing was completely different. A pang of jealousy surged through him and he immediately put it in check. You were trying to do something nice for him, he knew that and he should be grateful—he was grateful. He appreciated what you were doing, but he still felt a tiny sense of sadness at having to essentially borrow someone else’s family. Even if that family was yours.

Thankfully the feeling doesn’t last long as your parents smile warmly at the towering man. “You must be Phainon, our darling princess has told us all about you.”

Your dad continued to tease you but extended his hand to properly introduce himself, Phainon reciprocated the gesture for a firm handshake, and then your mom followed suit with an introduction of her own. Phainon made sure to be more gentle with her as he shook her hand, he really wanted to make a good first impression. He looked back over to you almost immediately after to find that you looked absolutely horrified by the previous quip your dad had made and Phainon couldn’t help the smile that stretched at his lips as he watched you. You caught him staring and narrowed your eyes with a huff.

“Don’t encourage him, in fact, just ignore my father altogether.” The older man chuckles and pinches at your cheeks as if overcome with cute aggression, you swatted away his hand and complained. “This is why I never let you guys meet any of my friends when you visit.”

Phainon could see the way you were biting back a smile—despite your complaining it was evident that you were enjoying your family’s company. He met more than just your parents, he was introduced to all three of your siblings (he learned that day that you were the youngest child up until you turned twelve years old when your parents had a “surprise” sibling—your younger sister). He also met your twin nephews (your brother's kids) and your one living grandfather. You told him that you had a small family, something about how your parents had to cut off most of them after some sort of dispute, but Phainon didn’t think that it was small at all—he would know given he did come from a small family. In fact, he thought what your family had was nice, especially since at the end of the day it was still your family, your blood relatives. 

He watched you interact with all of them, a fond smile curled at his lips naturally. Seeing this relaxed side of you wasn’t uncommon but something about how you act when you were with your family was different and he briefly wondered if you ever felt that way with him. Maybe to others who would look at the two of you from the outside, just like he was then, would see the same thing. They would see how relaxed your shoulders were or how your eyes had an extra glitter in them when speaking with him. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on Phainon’s part, but he couldn’t help himself.

He’d let hope seep in where he shouldn’t have in that moment meeting your family.

Your oldest brother approached him first and started asking him about the basketball team and Phainon’s former involvement as their team captain. His blue eyes widened in utter shock, not expecting your brother to know that about him. The slightly old man smiled politely and casually told him that you frequently brought up Phainon in conversation, always with an air of pride. 

The fuzzy feeling that settled in Phainon’s chest made him feel like he was going to combust. 

They invited him to dinner and who was he to decline such an offer when the company was so pleasant? You got to pick the restaurant, of course, but what Phainon didn’t expect was for you to pick your shared favourite restaurant. You shrugged him off easily when he gave you a questioning look.

“I knew you wouldn’t say no to dinner, I even called Cyrene and she told me there was no way you were going to say no to it when both me and my family were involved.” Your gaze was so innocent that Phainon couldn’t even think about being cross with Cyrene for not giving him a heads up, especially since she was well aware how he felt about you.

Instead of pretending to be annoyed, he lets a chuckle push past his lips. “You guys conspiring against me is a dangerous combination, you know that?”

“I actually don’t think I do, please enlighten me!”

Phainon rolled his eyes at that and just as he’s about to quip back, your sister saves you by asking where the two of you would like to sit.

The dinner was nice, there was no sense of awkwardness from your family over Phainon being there, they didn’t miss a beat—in fact, it was almost as if Phainon had always been there, like he had always belonged. It wasn’t the same experience he had when he had to acclimate to Cyrene’s family dynamic. The first few months following his family’s passing her family was stiff around him, always carefully choosing their words around him. It didn’t last forever, of course, but it was agonizing the first few months, especially when the one thing Phainon really needed was a sense of normalcy.

Like he did then after your guys’ graduation, knowing he wasn’t a first priority, he understood that Cyrene was always going to come first over him to her family but that didn’t make it sting any less.

You and your family made the celebration bearable. “So, Phainon, I’m told you majored in the same subject as our darling daughter. What are your plans now that you’ve graduated?”

“Dad.” You chimed in instantly, scolding your father for asking a usually dreaded question. 

Luckily Phainon actually had an answer, he gave you a reassuring smile before addressing your dad. “We interned at Chrysos Heirs Technologies for two semesters and we were both offered positions so I submitted an application. I have an interview with the team leader I would be working with in two weeks. Of course if that doesn’t work out, I’ve put in applications for other companies as well, same type of work.”

Your dad nodded, seemingly impressed by Phainon’s level headed response, he could feel your gaze too, he could imagine that your face showed a similar emotion to your dad’s. 

“So you both applied to the same company. Going straight from classmates to coworkers, huh?”

You butted in before Phainon even got the chance to open his mouth. “Of course we are, wherever he goes, I will always follow.”

Phainon’s gaze cut over to you so fast it made him dizzy, the weight of your words made him dizzy—as if the thought alone wasn’t disorienting enough. It all made him lightheaded, your promise running over and over again in his head. Wherever he goes, you would always follow, you would always be there for him. He had to admit, he liked the idea of that a lot more than someone who is supposedly just a friend should.

You made good on your word too because, not even a month later, you sat next to each other in a conference room to attend a new hire orientation for the open software developer positions you applied for at Chrysos Heirs Technologies.

And maybe Phainon fell just a little bit in love with you then too, while you sat there nervously fidgeting and tugging on his sleeve when something exciting was brought up.

*****

Phainon recalls this day a little too well, the day that his hope, along with his heart, started to waver. 

You were both almost a year into working at CH Tech and just finished a huge project for an even bigger account. The team was led by Senior Research Developer Anaxagoras, an exceptionally brilliant mind—albeit a little eccentric, many people at the company deeply admired him and you were no exception. You often spoke highly of the slightly older man in a way that made Phainon’s stomach churn in the most unpleasant way. 

It was something new for him—even when you went on dates, he had never felt this sinking feeling before. It was odd. It was unwelcomed.

The worst part about it was Phainon had no ill feelings toward Anaxa, he liked the man and even considered him an acquaintance over just a colleague. He admired the man too, but somehow he had this feeling it was not in the same way you admired him. He didn’t miss the way your eyes practically twinkled every time you looked at the researcher. 

The developer thinks he knows what the feeling was, he knew the name for it, he wasn’t that clueless. But he is that stubborn. He refused to put a label on it because then he would be faced with several other feelings he thought he had managed to push way deep down.

But as he watched you nod along enthusiastically to whatever the green haired man was saying, all those feelings he had bottled up all came fizzing up to the surface like a soda bottle that had been shaken way too harshly right before twisting off the cap. Jealousy, depression, denial, self hatred—it all hit him hard. It didn’t help that you were at your celebratory team dinner, so of course everyone had been drinking, Phainon included. 

Aglaea, another senior research developer, had taken notice of Phainon’s seemingly obvious crush on you and she was watching him carefully as he watched you drunkenly and unabashedly flirt the night away with someone who wasn’t him. 

Aglaea’s sharp eyes flitted between Phainon and you for a few moments before they settled on you as she leaned into him. “You know, when he first met her, he swore the two of you were dating. He wasn’t the only one, of course, we all did. Came as quite the shock when she told us you two were just friends. Makes me wonder. Why are you two just friends?”

The question caught Phainon off guard. Did she really not get it? Or was it just Phainon being naive to think everything would stay the same until you entered your 30’s? Thinking about it and seeing how many times you had put yourself out there, the developer realised that it was him. He was naive to think that you both had this unspoken agreement, this was a one way road and Phainon was the one driving.

Phainon mustered up a smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes and shrugged. “Timing was never right.”

“Ah…” Aglaea didn’t push further and he was grateful for how well she was able to read him in that moment. 

Later that evening Phainon bumped into you at the restrooms. You were beaming and bouncing on your feet like a little kid in a candy store. You had been waiting for him, that much was obvious.

“Phai, oh my god, it finally happened! Anaxa asked me out to dinner tomorrow. We’re going to that Western place you were telling me about.” Ouch. “You have to come over tomorrow and help me pick out the perfect outfit.”

Phainon felt his chest twist uncomfortably. Sure, he had helped you on many occasions with picking out an outfit for a date, but somehow this one was different.

Deep down he knew this one date was going to lead to something different and maybe that’s why his heart was shattering in his chest for the second time because of you

Phainon recalls this day a little too well, the day that his hope, along with his heart, started to waver. 

The third time Phainon falls in love with you, it caught him off guard, because he could have sworn he’d gotten over it—over you.

You were all doing your monthly get together, the whole college crew plus Cyrene (she was an honorary member since she visited Phainon at school so often). Once every four weeks you, Castorice, Mydei, Cerydra, Hysilens, Cipher, Hyacine, Cyrene, and Phainon all gathered at one of your places to drink—you guys had a rotation and this turn it was supposed to be at Mydei’s but Castorice made him switch with Phainon this time.

The blue eyed man had just bought his own house, so naturally you all wanted to throw a little housewarming party. The house itself was nothing big, nothing over the top, just a modest two bedroom with a surprisingly gorgeous and spacious backyard. Phainon had managed to save all the money he got from his parents’ passing, his various part time jobs throughout school and a bit more from his current job, with all of that he was able to find something a little more permanent than an apartment. He was even able to do some renovations, building a pool with a small waterfall being one of those things. He wanted to put a lot of love into his backyard because one of the other things he put money into after purchasing the home was a sizable firepit just off to the side of the pool.

The place was warm and welcoming and so utterly Phainon and he was happy to finally have a place to confidently call home, to call his own after having lost almost everything. 

Mydei had insisted on barbecuing and taking care of the food so Phainon could enjoy the evening with everyone. After a little back and forth (and maybe a smack to the back of the head from the blonde), Phainon conceded to the stubborn tattooed man and did just that, enjoying the evening. 

Or well, he was, until Anaxa was brought up into the conversation. 

“When do you think Mr. Frail Scholar will buy you a house like this?” Cipher giggles out to you and the look on your face is nothing short of starstruck over the idea. 

It’s a look you only get when you think of your, by then, long time boyfriend. “I’m not sure…He has been hinting at maybe getting a bigger place together but he never actually says the words ‘buy a house’ so, who knows…”

It’s been almost two years now since your first date with Anaxagoras, almost two years since you tore Phainon’s heart into shreds. He’s long since patched it back together. He’s happy for you, he really is, but sometimes he still can’t help but to feel… hollow. Like something is missing from his life—that something being you. He doesn’t blame you, nor does he blame Anaxagoras for seizing the opportunity in snatching you up, he really is the smartest man Phainon knows.

No, the only one Phainon blames is himself. He waited too long, he thought he had more time to confess his feelings to you. He even naively (maybe even a little arrogantly) thought he had all of the time in the world. But he of all people should have known better, time waits for no man. 

It was unfair of him to think you would wait too.

“I thought you had gotten past it.” Cyrene had made her way over to Phainon, who was in the pool, and sat at the edge to dip her feet into the surprisingly refreshing water.

He hadn’t even realized it, but he could feel himself frowning just the slightest, he probably looked like a kicked puppy. “I have.”

A lie. He was definitely not past it, even if he told everyone else, including himself he was. You weren’t just someone he could get over. He’s spent countless nights laying in bed wishing you were, but instead he continued agonizing over the loss of someone he never really had to begin with. 

Cyrene gives him a look and Phainon knows his words have done nothing to convince her. Before he can open his mouth to stupidly defend his blatant lie, Mydei calls for dinner and the white haired man could kiss the other for getting him out of this depressing conversation. He swiftly pulls himself out of the pool, splashing water all over in the process and effectively hitting Cyrene with more than just a few droplets. She makes a noise of complaint and he gives her an apologetic smile before offering her his hand and helping her up. Before Phainon can even fret over her towels are being shoved at the two of them.

“Saw that little mishap as I was drying myself off, thought you guys could use these.” Your smile was radiant as always, although the creases near your eyes weren’t as prominent, which meant you weren’t fully smiling.

Must have been because you were so worried about how wet Phainon got Cyrene’s clothes. 

Phainon smiled back at you and took the towel you were holding out for him, careful to grab it by the opposite end of where you were gripping onto it. “Thanks for saving both of us, don’t know what I was thinking, getting out of the pool like that…”

He chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his neck but before you could respond, Cyrene chimed in with, “You weren’t thinking, clearly. What happened to the thoughtful sweet boy I used to know and grew up with. I want him back. I don’t even know who you are anymore!”

“It’s definitely a new thing, he was always thoughtful in college. My working theory is that someone at work must be a bad influence on him.” You played along with Cyrene and were letting out small giggles with each big gesture the pink haired woman was making.

Phainon was no longer paying any attention to what was being said, instead he watched you for the first time in a while. The two of you were no longer on the same team at work, he had taken a promotion and you had transferred to a different department for further development and last he heard, you were up for a promotion of your own. He saw you outside of work less and less too, after getting into a serious relationship you spent most of your nights at home. Those monthly gatherings were really the only time he got to see you outside of the occasional run in at work in the hallways or the elevator but even then it was always just an exchange of quick pleasantries.

Sometimes it almost felt as if the two of you were strangers again. You hardly even messaged each other like you used to. It was hard for him at first, but he’s grown used to it now—not that the thought of it had ever gotten easier but he’d accepted it.

Castorice saved Phainon from his own thoughts by calling for the three of you, beckoning you all to get dinner before it got cold.

Mydei made a snide comment about making Phainon pay the blonde back for all of the “wasted” food if they let it get cold before trying any. You took hold of Phainon’s wrist and tugged him towards the rest of your group and despite all that had changed, he felt as though he had been transported in time, everything rewinding, and you were all back in college just doing your best to survive as young adults.

That one turn in the atmosphere had set an easy mood for the rest of the night. You were all so relaxed that when Cipher and Cyrene broke out the liquor and suggested a drinking game, no one even batted an eye (not even Mydei complained but that might have something to do with the pomegranate juice that was also pulled out alongside a few other mixers).

The night was far from over, in fact, it had just gotten started.

Three drinking games and multiple bottles of liquor later, Phainon found himself seated next to you at the fireplace, giggling about the stupid shit the two of you used to get into. Like the time the two of you decided it was a good idea to go to a concert the night before one of your big midterms (in a city two hours away, mind you) or the time you distracted one of your professors just so Phainon could sneak his late assignment into the already collected ones. The two of you were snorting obnoxiously, the alcohol making the atmosphere far less forced than it had been feeling lately.

The rest of your friends had mostly gone home, Hysilens and Cerydra bowing out before they could drink more than a glass each. They were gone before the cups for the first round of beer pong were even set up completely. Each of you got a round; Hyacine vs Cyrene, Cipher vs Mydei, and Phainon vs you. 

Castorice abstained from any drinks but waited until Mydei was ready to leave (the two of them lived in the same apartment building so the commuting together was nothing out of the ordinary). The tattooed man lasted two drinking games, his terrible luck causing him to lose both (Beer Pong which he lost to Cipher and King’s Cup where he was the one to draw the last King) and by the end of the second game he was absolutely hammered. Phainon made sure to help get him to the car and even offered to keep him over and take him home himself in the morning. Castorice of course waved him off and told him if she needed help she would call her sister out to come help her. 

With that it was only Cipher, Hyacine, Cyrene (who was staying over in the guest bedroom), you and Phainon for the last game—Categories. Somehow you were the one that came out the least unscathed, but even then you had plenty, enough to have your speech coming out slurred. Still, compared to the others, you were considered way better off. The hangovers looming over everyone's heads were definitely daunting but a problem for the next morning.

After Categories, Hyacine cut Cipher off for obvious reasons and the two also went home together in an Uber. 

With Cyrene having headed to bed for the night that left just you and Phainon, he wanted to stay up with you and keep you company until Anaxa was there to pick you up.

“D’you know how many guys I thought we were dating? I always used you as my scapegoat, y’know?” You took a sip of your drink and smiled, your eyes soft as you reminisced with him.

Phainon let out a chuckle and nodded his head. “Yeah, I do. I had guys coming up to me asking if we were really dating. Do you know how confused I was the first couple times I got asked. Do you know how hard it was for me to talk to other girls because of it?”

You made an apologetic face but something told him you weren’t sorry at all. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” You had Phainon’s full attention with that and he nodded his head, waiting for your confession. “I would tell guys that because…Ugh this is embarrassing…Can I pretend like I didn’t say anything?”

Phainon shook his head, his mind racing with all the things you could want to get off your chest. Maybe it was wishful thinking—no, it was definitely wishful thinking but he was kind of hoping you would confess that you felt the same way. Or maybe even that you were having second doubts about your current relationship. Maybe Phainon just wanted a reason to keep holding out hope for because you were someone he simply couldn’t even fathom giving up on.

So, he decides to be bold and give you a secret for a secret. “Y’know, back when we first became really close, I used to have this, like, massive crush on you?”

Maybe it was the alcohol (it was definitely the alcohol) but the blue eyed man felt almost relieved getting that off of his chest finally. How long had he been holding that in for now? Six? Seven years now? Whichever it was, it was far too long. 

He remembered being so terrified of you ever finding out but he never thought it could be so… freeing. Phainon felt lighter and somehow happier now that you knew. He was patting himself on his back for his phrasing too, making it sound like this was something he had gotten over. Because it was. It was something he had gotten over almost a year ago now. It had to be that way he couldn’t still think about any possibility of a relationship with you when just earlier that night you had been talking about buying a home with your long term boyfriend. 

You let out another snort and Phainon gave you an offended look. “I tell you this huge secret and you laugh at me? In my own home?”

“No-no that’s not…” You let out a fit of giggles and shook your head, trying to calm yourself down to speak properly—after a few moments you managed to finally stop your laughter. “It’s just funny, ‘cause I was actually gonna say the same thing. ‘S part of the reason why I would tell other guys we were dating. I had a crush on you too.”

He feels like he was just sucker punched right in the gut, he had the wind completely knocked out of him—reeling from what you’d just confessed to him. All this time. All of this time he thought his feelings were unrequited, one sided, never reciprocated but that was never the case. You were waiting for him. You waited for him and at some point you got tired of waiting. He was too slow, he waited too long. He should have been selfish for once and taken you when he had the chance. 

You were his missed opportunity.

The reality of it takes far too long to sink in.

Your phone buzzed and by the way your eyes lit up, the white haired man knew it was time for you to go home. “Ah- that’s Anaxa, gotta go, thanks for having us over tonight. See ya at work.”

Phainon, at a loss for words, found himself falling in love with you even harder than he had before (if that was even possible) as he watched you get up to leave after receiving a notification that your boyfriend was there to pick you up.

*****

Phainon woke up with a pit in his stomach, like he knew something unpleasant was stirring for him, and it wasn’t just the raging hangover he was already trying to nurse.

The white haired man dragged himself down his stairs and was greeted with the smell of Cyrene’s specialty hangover soup. She had learned it from a roommate in college and added her own twist to it. He was internally thankful that he had her over today, he needed the company and the soup after the previous night. Every time he had tried to make it, something about it never came out quite the same as hers. 

She looks over her shoulder when she hears the shuffling of his slippers on the hardwood and immediately scrunches her nose. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks. I feel like shit.” Phainon glares at her but it has no heat to it, trying to conserve what little energy he has.  “Soup smells good, ‘s it almost done?”

Cyrene hums, nodding her head and continues to stir some extra spices into the pot. Phainon will never verbally admit it, but having Cyrene visit like this was nice. Being alone in this home that was obviously meant for more than just one person was starting to get lonely. The place felt so empty that he was even playing around with the idea of getting a dog, even going as far as browsing through shelter sites.

Phainon also followed some of those shelters on social media. They posted profiles on their adoptable animals, most of which (in his opinion at least) were all very compelling. There was one little samoyed that went up for adoption the other day that he’d been eyeing, the little guy was saved from a less than ethical breeder home and the updated videos of him have slightly stolen Phainon’s heart. Even after all the trauma this puppy has been through he seems like the sweetest and happiest lil’ pup there is.

The blue eyed man takes a seat on a bar stool at his kitchen island and pulls out his phone to see if there were any new updates on the little fluffball, before he can pull up the shelter profile, his feed refreshes and the first post he sees shocks him to his very core. It’s from your profile, a picture you posted that if it was posted by anyone else Phainon would easily like it and continue scrolling without a second glance. It takes him a second to process what exactly it is he’s looking at, almost completely missing it was you until he noticed your username.

You’re at some private and fancy brunch place dressed in a stunning powder blue floral dress, your hair curled and framing your face perfectly. The sun shines behind you and bathes you in a light, making you glow and creating a halo that makes you look even more angelic than you already do. Phainon is so captivated by you he almost doesn’t notice the way you have your hand held out, the way it’s placed in Anaxa’s hand, the way a rock now sits pretty on your left ring finger. But when he does his whole world spins on its axis, everything spins and he stumbles out of his seat, phone clacking against the tile loud enough to start Cyrene. The pink haired woman looks up at him perturbed but her features soften almost immediately when her gaze takes in the state of Phainon.

Cyrene looks over to Phainon’s phone and that’s where she finds the same post that had just shook his whole world apart, her lips part in shock and then she looks at Phainon with pity, he hates it. “Phai…”

The blue eyed man gags and he has to cover his mouth. This wasn’t how things were supposed to play out. He has waited so patiently for you, supported you, cheered you on at every turn in life since the two of you met. He should be happy for you but his stomach churns uncomfortably and his chest tightens like it’s about to burst open at a moment's notice. 

The phone Cyrene is holding up to face him as she tries to question him starts to ring, your ringtone, your face pops up and the bile from last night starts to creep up on him. Phainon gags again and he has to run for the bathroom before he makes a mess all over his kitchen floor. As he’s hightailing it to the restroom he can hear the faint sound of Cyrene’s voice congratulating you on your engagement.

That’s it, this had to be the last time—the third and final time Phainon will allow you to cause his chest to cave in, crushing his heart to dust.

You’re not sure how you found yourself here, in front of Phainon’s house—well, you know how you got here but you’re not sure when you made the decision to come here. Last you checked you were supposed to be aimlessly driving until you had your thoughts in order, but it’s like muscle memory, coming to Phainon anytime your life feels like it’s crumbling in your hands. You should’ve known.

He was right.

You raise your fist to knock on the door but something in you pauses. What are you doing? Are you even allowed to come to him like this anymore? What if he has company over? Him and Cyrene seem to have gotten close again, she answered his phone the day you got engaged which meant she had stayed over at his place the night previously. Maybe you’re overstepping right now, or maybe you’re too late.

The thought keeps you frozen. You’d have no one but yourself to blame if Phainon has found someone like you thought you had. The revelation came too late and at the cost of someone else’s happiness.

You probably shouldn’t be here.

Before you can second guess yourself, muffled barking comes from behind the door and it stuns you even further because when did Phainon get a dog? Are you even at the right house? You wouldn’t put it past yourself, showing up at the wrong house in your state. You move to turn away when the door swings open and a ball of white fur jumps at you and makes you stumble to the ground.

“Khas, no!” Phainon’s voice rings in your ears and relief floods your entire body instantly.

How the hell had you not noticed? Why did it take your fiancé—no, ex-fiancé—questioning you about your feelings toward your long time friend for you to realize? Phainon has been right in front of you for almost a decade now and yet you’re just realizing that the feelings you’ve harbored for him have never been platonic.

Phainon’s voice of concern draws you out of your stupor when he calls your name. “Hey…are you okay? Shit, did he hurt you? I’m so sorry, I’m still training him.”

The white haired man manages to get the puppy off of you and back into the house then leans down to examine you. “Where does it hurt?”

You look at him perplexed, brows knitted and a small frown on your lips. Why would he think you’re injured? His expression mirrors your own when he realizes nothing seems to be injured and he reaches out to wipe at your cheek.

“Hey…What happened? Why’re you crying?”

Oh.

You didn’t even notice the tears flowing down your face. Before you can answer, though, Phainon is helping you to your feet and bringing you inside. You watch as he tries to wrangle the puppy once more and manages to get him to calm down before his blue eyes are once again on you. He’s waiting for you, oh so patiently like always, for you to answer his question.

“I… Anaxa called off the engagement…”

His eyes widen then you watch as he opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. The shock that flashes through his eyes and then something else, something that reflects in the way his shoulders relax, in the way his knees almost buckle underneath him. He sways but manages to stumble his way over to you, bringing you into one of his signature bear hugs, warm and comforting. You cry, not an ugly sob that most would let out from losing their fiancé, but something quiet like you had already known this was coming and you were grieving the years you lost on a man you could never completely give your heart to. Not when Phainon already held a piece of it.

You let your entire body slump into his far larger frame and you can’t help but to compare it to Anaxa’s smaller frame. You never got a sense of security like this when he held you. You know he couldn’t help it, he had health complications that kept him from gaining a fuller frame and once again you feel awful for subconsciously comparing him to Phainon. The guilt is starting to really settle and that’s what’s making your chest ache.

You try to push away from Phainon. You don’t deserve this comfort, you don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t even know what you’re doing here. You never meant to come here. 

This is wrong.

You’re proving him right.

Anaxa was right about your feelings toward Phainon.

The thought strikes you again and you gasp. You’re no longer crying from guilt. This is much worse, this is gut twisting. Your head feels dizzy and before you can really lose all sense of lucidity, Phainon is picking you up and distantly cooing you back out of whatever momentary attack you were having. 

When your mind clears for the most part you focus on breathing, wet lashes fluttering as you finally dare to look at Phainon. 

“You think you can tell me what happened now?”

You take another deep breath but you can feel the hoarseness in your throat. You tap at it lightly and croak out a sad “water” before swallowing thickly. Phainon is quick to pick up, getting off the couch before you even utter the word and taking long strides to the kitchen to get you something to drink. 

He’s back in maybe twenty seconds flat with a large jar filled with water.

You give him a scrunched look and he chuckles as he pushes the glass gently towards your mouth. “Ice cold water isn’t good for your throat. Just give this a couple of sips and I promise to get you some ice for it after.”

You eye him suspiciously for a moment, because how the hell does he know that? But then you remember, he grew up with Cyrene who’s told you on multiple accounts that she used to sing and even took voice lessons throughout grade school. He must’ve learned that from her. You can’t think of any other reason as to why he would know that. Regardless you trust him and take a big gulp of the water. All the crying you’ve done must have dehydrated you because the second the water hits your mouth you're chugging it down like you haven’t touched water in days after venturing in the desert. It takes you all but three big gulps to finish more than half of the water.

Phainon smiles fondly at you and takes the jar from you gently—he’s always been so gentle with you. He’s about to get back up but you stop him and swipe the glass back from his hand.

“This is fine. No need to get back up.” 

Phainon settles back into the couch and watches you intently for a moment as you take another nervous sip of your water. “So…Gonna tell me what happened now?”

You let out a heavy sigh and finally begin to explain what happened to him. 

“I’m not really sure how it escalated, but…Anaxa and I were talking about the wedding when the subject of the wedding party came up. He asked me if his sister could be one of my bridesmaids and, of course, I said absolutely. But then I brought up the subject of you being one of his groomsmen…” You look away from him when you trail off, not wanting to watch the way his face drops at the idea of Anaxa being adverse to the idea of him being in your wedding party. “He didn’t say it at first, but the look on his face told me that wasn’t gonna happen. I didn’t like that, obviously. So I pushed him because I’ve never been able to understand why he never seemed to like my friend group or even try to get to know you guys at least a little better. It’s always been a sore spot in our relationship honestly and I knew there was something that he wasn’t telling me. When I finally got him to spit it out… Well…”

Phainon gives you a look that urges you to continue and you let out yet another deep sigh. “He said he doesn’t like the way you and I act with each other. That the way you look at me makes him uncomfortable…”

“What?” Phainon’s brows are furrowed and he looks genuinely flabbergasted by this revelation. 

“Yeah… Umm…One thing led to another, I’ll spare you all the very unpleasant details, but he accused us of still being in love with eachother…”

Phainon’s eyes, which had wandered in contemplation, cut back over to you. “Still?”

You let out an uncomfortable laugh as you dodge eye contact with him and shrug.

“Seems he thinks we’ve had feelings for each other this entire time. But that’s crazy. Right? You would have told me…” 

You can feel the way his blue eyes are burning a hole in your head but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. If he looks even the tiniest bit insulted or disbelieving, you think you might start crying again. You now understand why you subconsciously came here. Sure, you came here for comfort, but if you’re being brutally honest with yourself, you think you’ve been emotionally done with your relationship with Anaxa since just after he proposed to you. He was surprisingly good at the grand gestures, a stunning engagement ring and a four bedroom house with a huge backyard and enough surrounding land to be mostly secluded and more importantly, quiet. 

The grand gestures weren’t the problem.

It was the way they were always done in silence, never shared with your loved ones, never spent with more than just him. You wanted to spend your life achievements with more than just him—was that so wrong of you? You didn’t think so but every time you brought up the issue he had a way of making you feel like it was wrong needing more than just him by your side.

Perhaps you and Anaxa had never really been compatible and what you really needed all along had been right in front of you this entire time. 

Phainon still hasn’t answered your question, so you finally move your head to look at him and find him still staring at you. Not only staring at you but analyzing you. He’s looking for something and the moment you lock eyes with him, he seems to find it. A small ghost of a smile finds its way to his lips and it’s his turn to shrug as he lets out an embarrassed chuckle.

“I thought you noticed and just chose to ignore it…”

Your lips quiver and a fire spreads across your face and down to your chest, something akin to annoyance boils up in your stomach and before you can stop yourself, Phainon is being scolded. “All this time? All this time, you’ve had feelings for me and never said anything? Are you stupid—no, oh my god—I’m the stupid one, how the hell did I not notice?”

Another infuriating shrug. 

You lean over and whack his arm repeatedly. “Quit! That! And answer! My damn question!”

“Ok, ok! I’ll answer!” He says through a chuckle and throws his hands up in surrender. “I really thought you knew and were choosing to ignore it. I didn’t think I needed to say anything. I thought my actions spoke enough for me.”

Oh. You are the idiot. The small gestures, the ones you craved from Anaxa. It wasn’t the gestures at all that you craved, it was Phainon.

It’s always been Phainon.

“Why did it take me so long to notice…” You don’t mean to say it out loud but the words flood from your lips in a whisper anyways.

Phainon manages to catch it and his smile grows a bit sad. He reaches out to you, the palm of his hand alone swallowing your entire cheek and then some. It’s warm, he is warm. He’s always been your ray of sunshine that burns bright even in complete darkness. Yet another thing that Anaxa could never compare to. You can’t help but to lean into his warmth, eyes sliding shut.

There’s some shuffling and you feel the couch dip under his weight as he gets closer to you. Your eyes flutter open to find him just a breath away. His eyes drop down to your lips and much like an excited puppy, like the one wagging their tail on the other side of the gate that’s closing them out of the living room, his eagerness gets the better of him as he leans in and slots his lips with yours. The kiss is soft, cautious, like he’s expecting you to pull back at any moment. You don’t, of course, you take it upon yourself to lean in and deepen the kiss. It’s sweet but holds an electricity that you’ve never experienced before and if he let you continue, you think you would more than happily explore it. 

However, Phainon does pull back and his beaming smile is so contagious you can’t even find it in yourself to be cross with him for separating from you. You smile back and the both of you start laughing, clearly dizzy from that long overdue kiss and the lingering electricity flowing between your bodies. You fall into him and his arms instinctively hold you closer to him.

When the two of you come down from that momentary high, his lips are placed at the crown of your head.

“It’s not that late, have you had a chance to eat something?”

The question seems so out of place for the situation. You should be more upset but you can’t find it in yourself to be worked up over another man when you're with Phainon. You shake your head and then look up at him.

“Didn’t really have the chance…” His hair tickles your forehead when he dips down to place a small kiss to your nose. 

He offers to cook for you but you insist on take out and Phainon has no other option but to order from your favorite pizzeria, he even makes sure to get all of your favorite toppings. You spend the night together in a bubble that makes the rest of the world melt away. You missed this feeling, you hadn’t even realized that you’d been craving it all this time.

This is the night you realize how you really feel for him and finally allow yourself to fall in love with Phainon for the first time.

This is also the night that Phainon falls in love with you for the fourth but certainly not the final time. 

Every morning since, you’d jolted awake like you’d been haunted by your own memories. No dreams. No gentle transition into consciousness. Just immediate, violent awareness and a silent scream stretched across your face like a war crime.

Your very first coherent thought, every single time, detonated in your skull at full psychic volume:

YOU ORDERED A MYTHICAL FIGURE OF DESTINY TO BABYSIT PRODUCE. PRODUCE. WHAT IS THE ACTUAL MEDICAL EXPLANATION FOR YOU.

The shame was not subtle. It did not whisper. It did not gently remind. It showed up wearing oversized shoes and a polka-dot suit and honked a horn directly into the deepest recesses of your mind.

It was aggressive. It was festive. It was persistent. 

Honestly? If he’d strangled you on the spot, that might’ve been preferable. Romantic, even. Tragic. Poetic. Killed by the Deliverer. What a way to go. 

Instead, you lived.

And that somehow felt worse.

Because the awful, gut-churning truth was that in your moment of market-based madness, you’d unleashed your inner chaos-goblin for him to see. This god-like being now possessed the knowledge that you could, and would, declare war on an elderly mob over a sack of flour. He’d heard you shriek “THAT IS MY ARMORIAL ONION!” at a grandmother. There were witnesses.

The real kicker? A tiny, vicious part of you wasn’t sorry. Your rage-goblin had taken the wheel that day, eyes glowing, screaming about soup stocks and patient welfare. It had seen a battlefield of pensioners and produce, and it had decided to win. Dignity was a casualty of war. You’d won the groceries, but lost your entire mind.

Now you were not just a ghost haunting your own life, you were the local legend of it. The infirmary would whisper about you someday. Children would dare each other to make eye contact with you. Dogs would refuse to enter rooms you’d recently occupied.

You drifted through the infirmary like a sleep-deprived specter held together by caffeine, denial, and one last fraying thread of professionalism, looking like someone who had just realized they were the punchline to the universe’s most tasteless joke—and that the universe was now expecting them to file reports on it. 

Your eyes were empty in a way that suggested your soul had stepped out “for a moment” and never came back. This was the stare that sees nothing, lost in thoughts of trauma of someone who had Seen Things, and was drafting a strongly worded complaint to the concept of existence itself.

You handed a patient a healing poultice with the eerie, flat cheer of a golem whose animating spell had glitched.

“Here you go,” you said calmly, pleasantly, convincingly. Meanwhile, inside your head: HE LAUGHED. WHY DID HE LAUGH?

Your hands continued to work on muscle memory alone—bandages wrapped, tonics poured, wounds closed—while your consciousness spiraled violently in the background like a Droma that had seen a plastic bag and decided this was the end. At one point you nodded at a patient without knowing why, or to whom, or in what year.

Someone thanked you. You did not register it. Gratitude could not reach you where you were. You were deep in the psychic rubble, clutching the echo of that laugh like a cursed artifact and whispering, why did the sun find this funny.

You kept moving. You always did. Because stopping would mean thinking. And thinking would mean remembering.

And remembering would mean screaming.

You walked into doorframes. Deliberately. With intent. Each solid thunk of your forehead against oak felt deserved. Cleansing. A mild, woody absolution.

Your coworkers noticed. Of course they noticed.

They watched you shuffle by, clutching a bedpan like it was the last sacred artifact in a blighted wasteland. Whispers trailed after you in tight little clusters.

“What’s wrong with her?” a fresh-faced intern whispered.

“Market day,” an older healer replied gravely, nodding like this was a known medical condition. That was all it took. They parted around you with reverence and fear—the kind of distance reserved for unstable explosives or people who might suddenly start chanting heroic epics about carrots.

The rumors bloomed. Had you been cursed by a spice vendor? Grazed by a malevolent turnip? Briefly possessed by a conscious yam? Some said you’d fought a bulky woman in the dried goods aisle and lost.

You said nothing. You simply existed.

Haunted. Judged. And forever changed by vegetables.

Your existence was now a single, endless loop of cringe. You replayed his patient smile, his amused eyebrow, the rich sound of his laugh—which at the time had felt nice, but now felt like a soundtrack to your social execution.

You had, in your mind, excavated a lovely little pit in the earth. You’d decorated it with your regret, furnished it with “what-ifs,” and moved in permanently. Your new life plan: subterranean hermit. Diet: worms and regret. Social calls: none.

You still did your job. You bandaged wounds, you mixed tonics, you smiled with your mouth—but your eyes screamed, “I AM IN A PERPETUAL STATE OF WANTING TO DISSOLVE INTO MIST.”

You were, in summary, a beautifully crafted disaster. A walking, talking monument to the fact that given the right combination of stress and scarce alliums, you would morally adopt a perfect hero as your stock-boy.

And you knew, with the kind of clarity that only comes from three consecutive days of utter, soul-crushing humiliation, that if you ever saw his frustratingly perfect, gorgeous radiant face again, you wouldn’t swoon. You wouldn’t collapse dramatically like a romance novel hero. No. You’d just… melt. Right there. A pitiful puddle of pure embarrassment, trembling like it just realized life is a cruel sitcom. Any sane person would nod solemnly, muttering, “Ah, just another Tuesday.”

The Titan Zagreus and maybe their underlings, have feasted like starving vipers on the succulent banquet of your shame for seventy-two hours straight, were no longer merely entertained. No. They were hungry for innovation. Mortal-level humiliation? Child’s play. They demanded a magnum opus. A symphony of awkwardness. And you—oh, lucky, cursed you—were the soloist.

"Peace? Tranquility?" they bellowed from their lofty, unseen vantage points. "We’re in the business of grand, theatrical escalation! Cue the human sun!"

By the morning of Day Four, your personal apocalypse was in full, flaming progress. You were already losing—and not to anything impressive. No wild grandmas. No curses. Just petty, nameless forces that barely qualified as obstacles.

Old man Pelios, face carved from judgment itself, stared down the vial of digestive tonic as if it were a misbehaving child about to rat you out. His scrutiny was so intense it seemed to bend reality slightly, like the universe itself had stopped to see if this tiny bottle could truly bear witness to your many catastrophes.

You held it there, arm aching, soul fraying, fully aware that this—this—was how you went down. Not in glory. Not in battle. But in a silent staring contest with a suspicious old man and a bottle of peppermint regret.

“You see,” you said, with the fake cheer of a street hawker attempting to sell soggy parchment to an angry cat, “the peppermint soothes the inner fires, while the ginger—” your voice cracked—“stirs the… sluggish rivers of the gut. A balance. Harmony.”

Pelios did not blink. Did not twitch. Did not acknowledge the fact that your soul was already quietly weeping in the corner.

“My rivers aren’t sluggish,” he said. “They’re contemplative. Philosophers. They do not require a ginger-induced riot.”

And there it was. Your first defeat of the day. And you hadn’t even left the infirmary yet.

The Titan Zagreus clapped from the void. You shivered. Somewhere, a parsley leaf laughed.

You opened your mouth to make your case for gastrointestinal democracy when the infirmary doors swung open.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was existentially terrifying. A soft, decisive swish of perfectly obedient hinges cut through the air like someone had just announced, “Everything you know is wrong.” 

Every ordinary sound vanished. The drip of a tincture stopped, mid-drip, deciding it had somewhere else to be. The rustle of bandages stiffened into silence. Daphne explaining in vivid detail why the head healer's new mustache looked like two disappointed caterpillars, just stopped. It was less a silence and more a sudden, universal agreement to pretend you were all statues.

And you? Your body committed full treason. Your spine locked up like a rusty lawn chair that's just seen a bear. The hand holding your "cure-all" tonic—which smelled like regret and licorice—froze dead in the air. It was no longer a hand. It was a statue titled: Man Vaguely Toasting the Inevitable.

Your heart didn't just sink. It went full stuntman. It launched off the high board of your chest, did a clumsy flip, belly-smacked against your ribs, and landed with a sad, internal squelch somewhere in the vicinity of your feet.

You didn't have to turn around. You could feel it. The room’s whole vibe just changed. The cozy smell of old herbs and mild regret was instantly overpowered. Now it smelled like a really important person had just walked in—a confusing mix of expensive scent, clean paper, and sheer, undeniable pizzazz. Even the light got weirdly better, like a divine stage manager had hit a spotlight and muttered, Okay, people, look alive. The star of the show is here.

Phainon. The Living Sunrise. Was here. In your grubby, herb-strewn, shame-filled place of work. Again.

A tiny, involuntary sound, like a stepped-on mouse toy, squeaked out of you. “Abort mission. Initiate self-destruct sequence.”

Pelios cupped a hand to his ear. “The tonic needs a lute? By the Titans, lass, how musical are my bowels supposed to be?”

“Not now, old man Pelios!” you hissed, frozen in place. “I am attempting to achieve spiritual invisibility through sheer willpower! It’s not going well!”

The footsteps came. Steady. Measured. Echoing with the sort of confidence that implied this man had literally never once tripped over a loose floorboard, a stray shoelace, or a banana peel. They stopped. Right behind you.

You could feel him. The heat radiating off him was not merely pleasant—it was a terrifying, attention-grabbing, “oh titans I am physically melting” kind of warmth. Your arm hairs stood at rigid attention like tiny, panic-stricken soldiers.

“Good morning to you.”

The words were gentle and warm and somehow hit your eardrums like a panic attack with excellent diction. Your brain automatically collapsed and whispered, I’m done.

You began the slowest, most agonizing pivot known to mortals. Time itself seemed to stretch. Your face attempted a smile and instead produced something resembling a constipated gargoyle mid-yawn. Then came the bow. A bow so deep, so rapid, your nose almost kissed your knees.

Curses.

“Lord Phainon! Welcome to the… the infirmary! A place of… healing! And… smells! Some good! Some… pungently medicinal! We’re very proud of the variety!”

You shot up, vision wobbling, lungs humming “please survive this” at full volume. Phainon stood calmly, impossibly perfect, like a marble statue taking a casual stroll, all while broadcasting mischief so intense it probably had its own code.

“I had received intelligence,” he said, smooth as honey but sharp as a knife hidden inside honey, “that you might be… unavailable. Suffering from a bout of recurrent visibility.”

You thought: Oh no. Not again. My life is a stage. And I am a tragicomic extra in my own horror show.

You made a mental note to spike Healer Daphne’s morning tea with a powerful, but harmless, laxative.

“Unavailable? Me?” you trilled, your voice an octave too high. “Nonsense! I am a pillar of accessibility! A beacon of approachability! Observe my stable mental state!”

Armed with the grace of a caffeinated chimera, you executed a grand gesture meant to radiate calm confidence. Naturally, your elbow betrayed you, smacking a tray of gleaming, cheerfully lethal medical instruments.

Chaos erupted immediately. Scalpels, saws, and other terrifying implements flew like panic-stricken birds. The brass bell, clearly auditioning for Diva of the Year, rang madly as it twirled across the floor, finally landing with a delicate ting… right on Phainon’s boot. You were pretty sure your career, dignity, and possibly your life had just flown away. 

Silence fell. Thick. Heavy. Profound. Only broken by the last, lingering echo of that infernal bell.

Your brain promptly exited your body.

Not metaphorically. Fully. It simply packed up its things, whispered “good luck with that,” and left you alone with the consequences.

You became acutely aware of everything all at once. The bell kissing Phainon’s boot like it was proposing marriage, the surgical tools scattered across the floor in a crime scene that screamed incompetence, and the fact that you were still standing there like a decorative idiot in scrubs. Breathing felt optional. Blinking felt dangerous. Moving felt like a legally binding mistake.

This is it, your thoughts informed you calmly. This is how a goblin ends. Not in battle. Not in glory. But by assaulting a god-like being with medical equipment.

You stared down at the wreckage of your self-preservation and the instruments, paralyzed, while he… did that eyebrow thing. One perfect eyebrow arched toward his hairline with the judgmental precision of a celestial ruler noting your failures.

You cleared your throat. A sound so tiny, so pathetic, it might have been mistaken for a dying bat attempting morse code.

“Ah. A… a demonstration of controlled chaos,” you squeaked. “We find it… keeps the malevolent humors disoriented. And the interns… on their toes.”

Somewhere in your brain, the tiny panic gremlins were filing a formal protest: We demand hazard pay for this level of humiliation.

Phainon lost his battle for composure.

It wasn’t a chuckle. It was a laugh. a full-bodied, shock of a laugh that somehow burrowed into the floorboards and gave your skeleton a pep talk it didn’t ask for. He covered his mouth like manners could stop it, but shoulders shuddered. Eyes closed. Opened again. Crinkled corners of joy radiated like a small, lethal sun. Your brain pinged repeatedly: This is medically unsafe. Abort mission.

“I do apologize,” he said, voice thick with the heroic effort of not laughing again. “It’s simply that you appear to be in… remarkable condition. Truly. A shining example of medical preparedness.”

Your soul didn’t just leave your body. It attempted to fold itself into a tiny paper airplane and yeet itself out the nearest window, destination—anywhere that wasn’t this room.

“My sources also indicated,” he continued, visibly wrestling another laugh into submission, “that you’ve exhibited a rather… evasive pattern of conduct these past few days.”

“Evasive?” you rasped. The word snapped in half like an over-tight lyre string. “Absolutely not! I am not evasive! I am—uh—tactically ephemeral. A wisp of professional focus! Impossible to grasp! Like fog! But with credentials!”

“She told me she was ‘on a spectral sabbatical’ when I asked for more liniment,” called a soldier from a nearby cot, ankle wrapped and dignity long gone.

You whipped around, eyes blazing. “You were seeing double! I was accommodating your visual impairment!”

“And you stood motionless behind a tapestry of the Hippocratic Oath for twenty minutes,” Healer Daphne added sweetly, folding linens with surgical precision. “You said you were ‘integrating with the moral fabric of medicine.’”

Phainon’s second eyebrow rose to join the first. They regarded you together. Judgment, but stylish.

“You also informed young Cleo that you were ‘invisible for routine maintenance,’” he said thoughtfully. “A child of seven. With a splinter.”

“He’s formative!” you cried, flinging your hands skyward. “It was a lesson in subjective reality! The splinter wasn’t real—it was a dirt speck fueled by fear! I was treating his mind!”

“My personal favorite,” Phainon said mildly, tapping his chin while smiling like a beautifully sharpened blade, “was the potted fern by the south window. The one wearing your sandals. And perspiring.”

“It was a sweaty fern!” you wailed, clutching your head. “The sweat was educational! It was like a living diagram! The sandals were… on theme!”

That grin widened, slow and deliberate. “I see.”

You pressed your face into your hands, words muffled by sheer terror. “I offer you my full, unqualified, prostrate-on-the-floor apology for the Great Market Debacle. Every shouted order. Every deranged declaration about cruciferous vegetables. I was clearly under temporary possession by a produce-obsessed entity. Possibly legume-aligned. I’ve contacted several reputable exorcists. Their fees are obscene, but my dignity—well. What remains of it—was worth the investment.”

And now you were screaming mentally. Somewhere, a fern nodded in understanding.

“The moment you proclaimed yourself the ‘Sovereign of the Soup Ingredients’ was… illuminating,” he said mildly, like he was discussing the weather and not the worst day of your life. “I’ve stood opposite veteran commanders on blood-soaked fields who projected less unquestionable authority.”

“I am a healer,” you cried, ripping your hands from your face to reveal a complexion best described as boiled beet. “My authority is meant to be gentle! Reassuring! Focused on reducing fevers and whispering encouragement! It is not meant to involve accusing a one-toothed grandmother wrecking like a madwoman! I have disgraced poultice-making! The mortar and pestle weep!”

“But you were correct,” he said.

And somehow, somehow, that soft, sincere tone was infinitely more dangerous than laughter. Mockery you could survive. Sincerity was a precision weapon.

“The soup mattered,” he continued gently. “The children in the lower quarter needed it. You saw that. You fought for it. In that moment, you forgot everything else.”

He took a single, subtle half-step closer. The air changed. It hummed, like the world itself had leaned in. His voice dropped, warm and conspiratorial, and your kneecaps immediately resigned their posts and liquefied.

“Including,” he murmured, “exactly who you were issuing your… strategic directives to.”

Your thoughts dissolved into the mental equivalent of an emergency alert siren—no instructions, no escape route, just noise.

You sprang to your feet on pure adrenaline, convinced for reasons unknown that verticality equaled salvation.

Your knees buckled. Your vision fuzzed. Somewhere, the universe whispered, absolutely not, and pulled the floor a little closer just to make a point.

“Easy there, Commander,” he said, and before you could argue that absolutely no one should ever call you that again, his hands were there. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just… certain. Steadying your shoulders like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Everything else vanished.

The room. The noise. The mortifying memories. Gone.

The universe shrank down to a single, traitorous point of contact.

And your soul? Your soul was not equipped for this development.

Sound, sight, smell, all of it vanished. You were a being composed solely of the awareness of two large, warm, impossibly solid hands resting on your shoulders. You were fairly certain you ceased all biological functions. Breathing was a forgotten concept. Your heart, in a state of utter mutiny, simply paused to appreciate the moment. You have become a living monument: ‘The Healer Who Turned into Stone.’

He released you just as swiftly, taking a smooth step back, his expression one of polite concern. But the impression of his grip lingered, branded into your skin and psyche.

“Well,” he said, brushing a speck of nothing from his pristine coat, the very picture of god nonchalance. “My primary objective was a wellness check. I couldn’t, in good conscience, leave my most formidable quartermaster, my grocery-field commander, unaccounted for.”

The sound that left you was the audio equivalent of a collapsed soufflé. “I beg of you. Any title in the world. ‘Plague-Carrier.’ ‘Official Village Idiot.’ ‘That Unfortunate Smell.’ Anything but that.”

“I’m afraid the promotion is permanent,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Stamped. Official. The ‘Commander of Culinary Logistics.’ It has a certain ring.”

He turned to leave, the sunbeam that followed him swiveling obediently like a personal spotlight. But at the doorway, he paused. Looked back. And the expression he wore was pure, catastrophic mischief—promise-laden and criminally unfair.

“Oh, and for future operations,” he added, voice dropping into a low vibration you felt in your teeth, “consider the mission parameters updated. Joint campaigns only. I’ll supply the basket.” He let the word linger, grin sharpening. “And the strategic intimidation.”

And with that, the Sun-In-Person form of Phainon departed, leaving behind only a faint, golden afterglow and the total, smoldering ruin of your professional and personal life.

You didn’t sit down. You melted.

Liquefied. Slowly sliding down the wall until you pooled helplessly on the spotless floor, a collapsed heap of healer, and former sovereign of soup ingredients—utterly defeated by groceries, a Deliverer, and your own traitorous heart.

Old man Pelios shuffled over, peering down at you like a philosopher observing a particularly interesting slug.

“So. The Deliverer.”

“Yes,” you whispered, staring blankly at the opposite wall, which seemed to be shimmering with residual humiliation.

“He called you ‘Commander.’”

“He did.”

“Fixed your title, he did.”

“He seems to have.”

Pelios nodded slowly, a sage acknowledging a great, terrible truth. “You’ve peaked, haven’t you, lass? This is it. The summit. All downhill into mundane sanity from here.”

You let your head thunk back against the cool stone wall. “I haven’t peaked, old man  Pelios. I have been launched into a wholly new plane of existence. A dimension constructed entirely of awkwardness, root vegetables, and the lingering warmth of divine hands on my shoulders. This isn’t my life. This is my afterlife, and it’s a very specific, very ridiculous form of Elysium.”

He rested his gnarled hand on your head, like comforting a small, emotionally traumatized forest creature. 

“It’s a good title,” he said, the kind of compliment that made you question why you were crying anyway. “‘Commander.’ Has a nice weight to it. Much better than ‘That Girl Who Shouted at Carrots.’”

You stared ahead, spirit briefly exiting your body to browse alternative life paths. Perhaps deep‑sea sponge diving. Perhaps voluntary exile in a cave so deep even echoes refused to sign the lease. Anything that did not involve divine beings, vegetables, or wicker baskets.

And then it settled in. Slowly. Horribly. With the clarity of a prophecy carved into stone:

He was coming back.

And he was absolutely going to have a basket.

Somewhere far above—on a cloud-draped Olympus that absolutely should have known better—the Titan, Zagreus was not merely applauding. They were commissioning portraits. Dictating epic verse. Baptizing one another in ambrosia while crying tears of mirth.

The performance, it seemed, had only just reached its opening act.

If shame were measurable in units, you had achieved a density previously thought impossible outside collapsed stars.

After the Phainon Incident—capital letters mandatory—you did what any rational, emotionally devastated healer would do.

You fled to the laundry.

Not because you needed clean clothes. But because laundry rooms were sacred spaces where nothing important ever happened. No Deliverer. No destiny. No baskets. Just soap, steam, and the gentle, brainless rhythm of manual labor. You needed something repetitive enough to drown out memory but not so complex that you might accidentally think.

Laundry was safe.

Laundry was neutral.

Laundry did not judge.

This, of course, was hubris.

The infirmary’s laundry room was not a sanctuary. It was a damp, steamy dungeon where optimism went to be scalded, scrubbed, and beaten senseless against a washboard. Hope entered softly and left in shreds. You were there not out of dedication, but because you were hiding. It was the one place no one important, powerful, or even mildly organized ever dared to enter.

You stood before a massive, groaning copper basin, locked in mortal combat with what had once been your healer’s tunic. It was no longer clothing. It was a hostile, soap-slicked entity that actively resented being cleaned and was prepared to die filthy out of spite. You scrubbed. It resisted. The basin sloshed ominously, like it was taking the tunic’s side.

The air turned your hair into a frizzed-out warning sign. One forgotten onion skin floated sadly in the suds, a damp, translucent reminder of your long list of personal shortcomings. You met it with the dead-eyed serenity of someone who had realized life had no meaning and laundry was the proof.

Behind you, the washboards stood ready. Steam hissed ominously. The tunic remained a lost cause.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

Each aggressive stroke against the washboard was a message to the universe.

This is for the flour theft. Scrub.

This is for the ‘Commander’ title. Scrub.

This is for the way my shoulders still feel phantom hands. SCRUB.

You were muttering to the tunic, a low, steady stream of consciousness that had long since lost any tether to sanity.

“And you,” you hissed, wringing its neck with a savage twist. “You were there. You witnessed the grocery goblin uprising. You are an accessory. You should be tried as a war criminal in a court of fabric softeners.”

The tunic, now a rope of lament, dripped onto your shoes. You sighed, a sound so heavy it momentarily dispersed the steam around you. This was your life now. A post-sun god, pre-breakdown purgatory, lightly scented with lavender soap and existential dread.

You were mid-exorcism—strangling a tunic that had seen everything and clearly remembered them—when the laundry room door let out a traitorous groan.

“(Y/N)? Are you in—”

The voice died. You turned. Slowly. Drippingly.

This was not a person turning. This was laundry achieving consciousness. You were a damp, wrung-out pile of regret in vaguely humanoid form. Your sleeves clung sadly. Your hair had entered a state of humid anarchy. A lone, rebellious sprig of rosemary stuck behind your ear like some kind of garnish slapped onto a sad, cold dish called Poor Life Choices, Extra Dramatic.

Hyacine stopped dead, towels pressed to her chest as if they could ward off psychic calamity. Her face ran a full program of emoji-level panic: confusion, mild horror, existential despair, and ultimately the kind of wide-eyed, slack-jawed terror reserved for first contact with a sentient, emotionally unstable swamp being—which, inconveniently, bore a striking resemblance to you.

“OH MY AQUILA!” she gasped, setting the towels down as if it contained volatile emotions. “(Y/N). What is this? A new aquatic meditation technique? Are you trying to drown your problems?”

“It’s hydro-therapeutic accountability,” you muttered, avoiding her gaze. “I’m confronting my actions… through vigorous rinsing.”

She stepped into the steam, her healer’s eyes performing a full diagnostic scan. “This looks like the aftermath of a feeling. A very loud, very damp feeling. This is about the market.”

You flinched as if she’d brandished a tactical cane. “That word is forbidden. It’s a trauma trigger. An ongoing psychic event.”

“And Lord Phainon,” she added, her voice dropping into that tone of terrible, infuriatingly smug knowing.

The words hit the humid air like a lightning bolt. Your body froze. The wet tunic escaped your feeble grip, landing on the floor with a humiliating splut that sounded suspiciously like your self-preservation cracking.

“How,” you squeaked, your voice wobbling with pure panic, “could you possibly know about that?”

Hyacine’s smile stretched too wide to be healthy—part smug, part “I know something you don’t,” part “probably guilty of minor heists on the side.”

“Oh,” she said, calm as a cucumber, “he mentioned it.”

Three words.Three simple, soul-annihilating words.

Your brain short-circuited. “Mentioned… it,” you parroted, your mental processes glitching. “As a… public service announcement? A warning about the dangers of unchecked altruism in grocery environments? A new subsection in the handbook ‘Handling Local Deities in Civilian Settings’?”

You thought the secret was safe with him? SO WHY?!

Hyacine leaned against a dry shelf, her eyes sparkling with gleeful revelation. “He stopped by the high clinic. He was… different. Lighter. Almost playful. And he just… started telling the story. About you.”

A high-pitched whine tore out of you, the sound your brain makes when it’s officially given up on life. “NOOOO!”

“Yes!” she said, clapping softly, like she was watching a slow-motion cart crash and had front-row seats. “He said he’s never encountered a negotiation style quite like yours. He called it ‘aggressive bartering through sheer force of will.’ Apparently, watching you defend a sack of flour from a grandmother, who was swinging her purse like a medieval weapon, was the most entertainment he’s had in years. He was smiling, (Y/N). Like actually smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like that.”

Each word smashed straight through your composure, leaving nothing but glittery embarrassment behind.

Your soul attempted immediate evacuation, hoping to evaporate into the steam and be mistaken for bad ventilation. 

“So,” you croaked, “my total mental collapse was… leisure. A hobby. A fun little street performance.”

“He wasn’t laughing at you,” Hyacine said quickly, though her mouth was still twitching. “He was fascinated. He said you had the strategic mind of a seasoned general and the situational awareness of a concussed chimera. He was especially fond of your ‘Sovereign of the Soup Ingredients’ speech. He repeated it. Twice. He said it was… inspired.”

You buried your face in your wet, soapy hands. “I want to stop existing,” you muttered. “I want to become a vague concept. A rumor. A damp smear on this washboard that people gesture at and say, huh, that’s new. Please fold me into obscurity and misplace me permanently. If I ever see him again, I will combust on the spot and leave behind ash, lavender, and a warning label.”

Silence followed—thick, awkward, and deeply unhelpful—interrupted only by the slow drip… drip… drip of water and the sound of your remaining dignity quietly evacuating through the ceiling. You peeked through your fingers, bracing for reality to finish the job.

Hyacine was no longer just amused.

She was studying you.

Her head tilted. Her eyes narrowed with the sharp, focused intensity of a master healer who had just spotted a rare, tragic condition in the wild.

“Oh,” she breathed softly. “Oh, you poor thing.”

You dropped your hands. “What? What do you mean poor thing? I’m fine. I’m incredibly fine. I am a perfectly functional puddle except mentally.”

“It all makes sense now,” she murmured, stepping closer like you were a delicate specimen under glass. “The way you froze when he entered the infirmary. The vibrating. The strategic hiding behind the Hippocratic Oath tapestry. This…” she gestured broadly at your soaked, despairing form, “…laundry-based breakdown. This isn’t just professional embarrassment.”

The blood drained from your face so fast you briefly saw the void.

“It’s not?”

“No,” she said, kindly, which made it worse. “You have a crush on him. A big, hopeless, starry-eyed crush on Lord Phainon.”

The universe folded in on itself. Time broke. You feel like an angel pinched the bridge of their nose.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” you howled, denial echoing around the room with the passion of someone who was absolutely, categorically lying to themselves. “PREPOSTEROUS! SLANDEROUS FICTION! I HOLD HIM IN THE HIGHEST ESTEEM! AS ONE DOES A… A NATIONAL TREASURE! OR A VERY WELL-MAINTAINED PUBLIC PARK!”

You were shaking your head with such violent, repetitive force you generated a small breeze. “Nope. Nuh-uh. No way. Incorrect conclusion. Flawed data. I admire his… his commitment to civic duty! His… radiant leadership! From a distance! A respectful, non-specific, platonic distance!”

Hyacine’s smile transformed. This wasn’t teasing anymore. This was the exact expression people make when they’re trying not to roll their eyes while you dramatically catch up to information that’s been obvious for centuries. She crouched down, meeting your eyes with infinite sympathy.

“(Y/N),” she said sweetly, “look at me. It’s Lord Phainon.”

Your internal organs voted unanimously to flee the room.

You blinked. “I… yes? And?”

“He’s Lord Phainon,” she repeated, as if this explained everything. And in a way, it did. “The man is basically a personified sunrise. He’s kindness made flesh, power with a conscience, he literally fights the darkness so we can have picnics. Half the city is a little bit in love with him. The other half wants to write epic poetry about him. It’s not a fault. It’s… it’s a logical response to sunlight! It’s biology!”

Your frantic denials died in your throat. She wasn’t attacking. She was… absolving you.

“You think I don’t see it?” she continued, her voice warm. “The way new recruits stammer when he walks by? The way seasoned soldiers stand a little taller? The ‘Council of Yearning’ isn’t a secret society, it’s a support group! Liking him isn’t shameful—it’s literally pre-installed in every model of human with eyes!”

You stared blankly, defensive panic sloshing out of you like a damp sponge, leaving behind only confused acceptance. She wasn’t mocking you for your feelings. She was stating them as a simple, universal fact of life in Okhema, like ‘rain is wet’ or ‘elderly people will fight you for the last roll of discounted cheese.’

“I…” you stammered, voice tiny and panicked. “It’s not like... I mean, it’s not only about how he’s… shiny and good-looking or whatever.”

“Of course it’s not,” she said, her touch gentle on your knee. “It’s how he listens, truly hears you, like your words matter more than anything else in the day. It’s the fact that he once spent an entire afternoon helping a little girl find her lost cat, ‘Lord Mittens,’ instead of attending a strategic briefing, because he said ‘some darknesses are small, but that doesn’t make them less important to fight.’ Am I close?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your silence was a screaming confession. She had just narrated the secret, sacred list of reasons you kept tucked behind your ribs.

“See?” Hyacine said, standing up and offering you a hand. “It’s not a crime. It’s practically a civic duty. The crime is that the object of your very reasonable, very common admiration now thinks your most memorable feature is your ability to wage war with a bag of carrots.”

You took her hand, letting her haul your damp, defeated form upright. The fight had completely abandoned you, leaving behind a puddle of shame and mild panic. “So… what do I even do at this point? Join the Council of Yearning? Commission a tasteful bust? Learn to play the lyre and write sonnets about his cheekbones?”

“You take a vacation from the sheer Phainon-ness of it all,” she declared, her practical healer mode re-engaging. “You need a dark, quiet hole where the sun does not shine, metaphorically or otherwise.” She snapped her fingers. “The Deep Archives! Healer Brom is desperate for help indexing ‘Digestive Ailments of the Common Garden Slug, Volumes VII through XII.’ It is the single most boring collection of knowledge in the known world. You will be safe there. No sunlight. No laughter. Just… mucus-related trivia.”

Garden slugs. It was perfect. A slow, slimy, profoundly unglamorous asylum.

A weak, watery smile touched your lips. “Slug digestion. Yes. That’s my calling now. A noble, gooey calling.”

Hyacine beamed, the picture of benevolent rescue. “Report to Brom at dawn. And (Y/N)? For what it’s worth, the fact that he was so entertained? That he remembered it all? In the vast ocean of reverence he swims in, you made a splash. A loud, chaotic, onion-filled splash. He noticed.”

She left, taking the scent of clean linen and sanity with her. You stood alone in the steam, the weight of her understanding somehow both a relief and a new kind of torture.

It wasn’t a secret, shameful sin. It was a common condition. You had a terminal case of Phainon-itis, a pandemic of the heart that afflicted most of the city.

And your only cure was to hide in a basement and think about slug stomachs.

It was a flawless, rational, gastropod-based plan.

You had, of course, forgotten to factor in one hilarious, inevitable twist of fate: Phainon, in his endless quest for knowledge to protect Okhema, had recently developed a keen interest in the resiliency of simple life forms. His current research? The inexplicable disease resistance of the very same common garden slug, a mystery he intended to solve by consulting the exact archives you were about to bury yourself in.

Your retreat was about to become a very small, very awkward, and very well-lit encounter.

The Deep Archives weren't just a place. They were a state of being—a state of beautiful, blissful, Phainon-free nothingness. The air felt like a chowder of dust and dashed hopes, lit only by one pathetic sconce that flickered as if powered entirely by regret. It was perfect. Your own personal, subterranean nirvana.

Healer Brom had welcomed you with the warmth of a dormant lichen, assigning you to the "Epic of the Egestive: A Saga in Seven Volumes." You had never been happier. Here, you would achieve inner peace. You would become one with the scrolls. You would rise above your physical form of humiliation and achieve a new, exalted plane of complete and crushing normalcy.

This is it, you thought, a serene smile touching your lips as you unfurled a treatise on "Mucous Membrane Resilience in Sub-Damp Conditions." My soul is finally safe. No sunlight. No laughter. No human sun. Just me and my thoughts, buoyed by the deeply upsetting resilience of slugs.

You took a long breath of stale, fungus-heavy air and relaxed. Ah yes. This is what it smells like to not matter. The aroma of forgotten potential. I am a ghost in the machine of knowledge. I am—

The light changed.

Not a flicker. A transformation.

The pitiful glow of your sconce got competition. A warm, golden light spilled from the aisle like someone had forced a slice of summer through a keyhole. The dust motes, previously sulking like tiny teenagers, suddenly sparkled like they were auditioning for a musical.

Your peaceful smile froze, then cracked into a very unhelpful jagged line, kind of like “oops, goodbye composure.”

No.

Nononono.

It’s a reflected glow from a… a polished shield! Yes! A guardsman is lost! He’s carrying a very shiny helmet! That’s all!

Then came the footsteps.

Not the shuffling, sticky-soled trudge of Brom. Not the frantic, skittering steps of a junior archivist running from philosophical despair. These were his footsteps. The ones that didn’t so much touch the ground as agree with it. Confident. Unhurried. Inevitable.

Your body went into full-system panic. Your brain screeched a single, looping command: ABORT MISSION. EMERGENCY MODE: INANIMATE OBJECT. 

You slammed your forehead down with the commitment of someone choosing oblivion. I do not exist. I am a particularly dedicated stack of parchment. I have no face. I have no past involving vegetable warfare. I am "Volume IV: Peristaltic Regrets."

The footsteps stopped. Right at the head of your aisle.

Silence. The silence was so absolute you could hear the mold plotting its life goals. Underneath, a deep, rumbling hum of sheer oh-no energy. Like a sunburn you could feel in your bones, in a completely dark room.

WHY IS HE HERE?

That was the only coherent thought left, echoing uselessly through the wreckage of your mind. Why here, of all places. Had he taken a wrong turn on the way to something appropriately glorious. Had save the city somehow been misheard as save the slugs. Was this a new, innovative form of divine punishment—some kind of cosmic hot potato where the potato was your dignity and he was merely passing through, casually, devastatingly, without mercy.

None of the answers made sense, which felt deeply on brand for your life.

“A comprehensive collection,” his voice observed, calm as a mountain lake. It rolled down the aisle, wrapping around the scroll racks and giving your soul a friendly, terrifying pat on the back.

You stopped breathing. Maybe if I don’t breathe, I’ll achieve true parchmenthood. I’ll desiccate gracefully.

“I hadn’t realized the archives held such depth on invertebrate perseverance,” he continued. He was moving now.

He wasn’t here on official business. That much became horrifyingly clear.

He was browsing.

Not striding. Not rescuing. Not smiting. Browsing—standing there in the pit of despair like a man killing time before an appointment, scanning the shelves of misery with polite interest. He leaned in to read titles like Tenacity in the Face of Salt, nodded thoughtfully as if considering a purchase, and hummed faintly, hummed, in a space powered entirely by suffering and antiseptic.

What kind of god browsed. What celestial being wandered into an infirmary—the emotional equivalent of a dumpster fire—and treated it like a quaint little bookshop. Did he think this was charming? Was he planning to circle back later? Did this come with a loyalty card, or did you just unlock recurring emotional trauma?

You could only watch as he tilted his head, assessing the situation like a menace with time to kill. As if misery came in editions. As if your ongoing breakdown were a display piece with a handwritten tag that read fragile, please do not touch.

This wasn’t a punishment. It was worse.

His shadow fell over your desk. It wasn’t a normal shadow. It was a long, elegant, heroic shadow. It fell across your scroll like a spotlight of doom, illuminating the phrase “catastrophic mucus failure” with poetic irony.

The jig was up. The furniture ruse had failed. With the grace of a beached walrus having a seizure, you lifted your head.

Phainon stood there, looking devastatingly out of place. He was holding a scroll titled "The Unyielding Spirit of the Common Mollusk." 

OF COURSE HE WAS. He probably identified with it. 'Unyielding Spirit' was likely his middle name.

His eyes—the exact color of the sky on a day you’d once wasted by being inside and sad—found yours. A flicker of recognition, followed by a slow, dawning smile that had no right to exist in the same code as chronic slug flatulence.

“You,” he said. The word was warm, amused, and felt like a verdict.

Your vocal cords had clearly retired and been replaced with limp pasta. The squeak you managed sounded like a confused hamster trapped in a cardboard tube.

He gestured with his mollusk manifesto toward your own mountain of misery. “Brom has you on the front lines of gastropod gastroenterology, I see.”

You swallowed a mouthful of dust and despair. “Vital… work,” you croaked. “The… the egestive, regurgitative paradigm… it’s a… a slippery slope.”

Why did you say that?!

Slippery slope. In a slug archive. You hadn’t spoken—you’d committed a cliché in real time. The kind that echoes. The kind that never lets you sleep again.

This was it. This was how you’d be remembered. Not as competent. Not as normal. But as the person who made that joke and then had to keep living.

“I can imagine,” he replied, his eyes doing that crinkling thing at the corners. He took a step closer. The air around him seemed to reject the very concept of dust. “I must confess, my own research brought me here. The resilience of simple life forms holds fascinating parallels to larger philosophical struggles.”

Of course. Of course his research was about resilience and philosophical struggles. Of course he studied concepts that sounded like they came with footnotes, moral weight, and a tragic backstory.

And here you were. Your research was about slug burps.

Yes. Truly. Intellectual equals. Two great minds, meeting at the summit of scholarship—him scaling the sheer cliffs of existential endurance, you crouched in the mud, earnestly cataloguing gurgle patterns. Obviously. Perfectly balanced. The universe made no mistakes.

“Fascinating,” you repeated, your voice shooting into a painfully high register, somewhere between a chipmunk and a malfunctioning flute. “Very… profound. And slimy.”

He chuckled. The sound was a warm wave that washed over you, momentarily making you forget you were sitting in a chair made of petrified disappointment. 

“I was seeking Brom, but finding you is a far more unexpected prize.” His gaze swept over your frantic notes, the death-grip you had on your quill. “How are you settling into command of the archives, Commander? Finding it to your tactical liking?”

The title. Here. In the mucous membrane section.

A blush of catastrophic proportions exploded across your face, neck, and possibly your soul. You were a walking, blinking distress signal, broadcasting shame to everyone and everything in a five-mile radius.

“Please,” you squeaked, a pitiful, universe-directed plea. “The slugs… they’re watching. You’ll ruin my authority.”

His smile could have powered a small country, or at least a very smug household of very judgmental cats.

“I think your command is fine,” he said casually. “They seem… loyal. If slightly… lethargic.”

Then he leaned in. Just a smidge. Just enough. He leaned close, voice slipping into a covert whisper that sent shivers down your ear, like it was personally training you for espionage… or emotional destruction.

“Honestly,” he added, “I’d trust a slug’s discretion over Councilor Elia’s. That man could gossip a fortress into surrender before breakfast.”

It was… a joke. A sun god-tier joke delivered just for you, with eye contact. Your heart immediately attempted gymnastics, got tangled in your emotions, and is now lying on the mat staring at the ceiling, whispering “worth it.”

A strangled noise escaped you—part laugh, part life support failure.

“He did… spend twenty minutes analyzing the subtext of the dessert menu at the last assembly,” you wheezed, because somehow explaining this made things worse, not better.

Phainon’s face lit up with genuine delight, as if you’d just recited perfect epic poetry. “The lavender custard ‘spoke of a hidden melancholy’! I nearly applauded. The Black Tide amasses at our borders, and he’s doing a dramatic reading of the pastry chef’s soul.”

You felt a traitorous, wobbly smile appear on your own face.

No. Stop it, face.

This was a lockdown situation. A containment breach. A trap. A sunny, pleasant trap—yes—but a trap all the same, baited with effortless wit and perfect hair and the dangerous illusion that this was somehow manageable. You knew better. You had to know better.

This was how people got ruined. Not with drama. With charm.

“I should…” you gestured limply at your scroll, “…return to the… the episodes. They’re not going to… chronicle themselves.”

Genius. Brilliant. They won’t chronicle themselves. Carve that on your tombstone and add a little footnote explaining you died of hubris in a slug archive.

“Of course,” he said, standing tall, or at least making the executive decision to remain exactly where he was. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t move away. He simply looked at you. Calm. Measuring. Disturbingly kind. The look made your life feel like a prank played by reality itself, written in invisible ink and folded into a trap just for you.

“How wonderful to see you, (Y/N),” he resumed. “Honestly, the upper halls have been...eerily uneventful in your absence. Suspiciously calm. A little too quiet. Definitely missing something… like you.”

He noticed. And your heart burst like an explosive.

That was the problem. He had noticed your absence—noticed the sudden, alarming lack of “events”—and apparently his conclusion was that you were the event. Not a person. An occurrence. A phenomenon. Something that happened to rooms when you were in them, like a festival rolling through town or a minor natural disaster with paperwork afterward.

You weren’t a colleague. You were weather.

Somewhere in his mind, there was a neat little note that read: Subject absent. Chaos levels reduced. Interesting.

And then, he reached out.

Not to grab, not to shake. One finger rose. Slowly. Deliberately. It grazed the crumb of parchment still clinging to your cheek, a tiny relic from your spectacular, face-first surrender to academia.

The contact lasted less than a heartbeat. But it was a heartbeat that had studied under a master and performed a flawless solo.

Something electrical—adjacent to electricity, at least—zipped from his fingertip straight to your toes, which immediately clocked out.

He paused, eyebrow lifting in surprise and faint guilt, then nodded like this was a completely reasonable outcome.

“Carry on, Commander. Try not to let the… egestive incidents bring you down.” He left, the golden glow fading, leaving you in darkness so absolute it practically demanded a dramatic faint or at least a sad monologue.

You didn’t move. You were a statue of pure, buzzing bewilderment.

Your hand wobbled like a jelly on stilts as you raised it to your cheek, unsure if the contact would be fatal or just mortifying. It felt… singed. In a nice way. A terrifyingly nice way.

Your internal monologue, which had short-circuited, rebooted with a scream. 

He touched your face.

That was the point where your thoughts stopped being thoughts and became a loose pile of panic sounds. He touched your face—in the slug archive—after making a joke about political gossip, like this was a normal conversational escalation and not a felony against your nervous system.

What was happening. What kind of interaction was this? Was this flirting? Was this divine pity? Was he running a long-term field study titled The Effects of Residual Grocery Trauma on Mortal Cognition. Had you been unknowingly enrolled. Was there paperwork?

He’d called you an unexpected prize. A prize.

You weren’t a person anymore. You were a raffle item. A surprise reward at the bottom of a cereal box. Congratulations! You screamed at some elders, fled to a basement, and now you get lightly face-touched by a sun god.

Your brain desperately tried to categorize the moment and failed completely. This wasn’t courtship. This wasn’t mercy. This was something new—an unholy third thing—like being carefully poked and prodded by a god who had found a shiny object and was debating whether it was trash or treasure.

You stood there, statue-still, as your self-respect quietly resigned and left a note: “Try not to die.” 

From the shadows, Healer Brom slithered forward like a badly programmed security system, radiating curiosity, menace, and a suspicious herbal bouquet. He glared down the empty aisle, then at your flaming, shell-shocked face.

“Had a visitor,” he stated, his voice like gravel rolling uphill.

“Y-yes.”

“Hmph. Fancy one. Wants to borrow my slug scrolls. Thinks they hold the key to ‘fortitude against cosmic decay.’” Brom sniffed, clearly unimpressed by cosmic decay. “You’re all flushed, lass. Catching something? There’s a scroll on ‘Contagious Blushes in Archivists’ over in Aisle Nine. Volume III, I think.”

You put your burning face in your hands. “It’s not contagious, Healer Brom. I think… I think it’s chronic.”

“Well, don’t get it on the scrolls,” he grumbled, shuffling away. “Parchment is porous.”

You were left alone in darkness, cheek buzzing, mind a chaotic funhouse, and somehow mollusks were now officially part of your life plan. The moral was simple: the sun doesn’t negotiate. It finds you, shines in exactly where it hurts, and it seems to find you really hilarious.

previous | ahy masterlist | next

The tension in your bedroom was thick enough to cut with a blade. 

Not the bad kind of tension where you were anticipating a fight to break out between your lovers. It was the kind of tension where you feared you’d be getting devoured whole instead. 

“Sweetie, how can you be so sure?” Sylus, standing by the foot of your bed, was the first to speak after your bold proclamation . “Because I’ve had them in my mouth, in my hands, in my pussy, in my ass… I'm pretty sure I’d be able to tell the difference between your dicks if you blindfold me.” Caleb, sprawled across one half of your bed, had long since abandoned his doom scrolling. 

“I dunno, baby. Me and Sy don’t exactly give you time to memorize us.” You felt your cheeks warm slightly as Sylus began to laugh, a low grumbling sound that sent a wave of arousal shooting down your spine. “Muscle memory at this point, Cal. I don’t think I really need to study to know who is who.” You were doubling down, chewing on your lower lip and glancing between the two men. Praying they’d give in and try to prove you wrong. 

“Well…” Caleb’s eyes locked with Sylus, flickering over to where you sat on the bed before returning to that crimson gaze. “I don’t want to speak for Sy, but his aethercore is speaking for him.” Caleb doesn’t flinch as Sylus uses his evol to snatch his phone off his chest. Laying it on the nightstand a moment later, not to scare him, but to warn him of what he can do. 

“Sweetie, if you’re so sure…” he spares Caleb a glance, ignoring the colonel’s lazy smirk before stepping closer to you. “We can try it. But as always, we need ground rules. As well as…” he’s already tugging his sweater over his head, revealing the rippling muscles of his tanned skin. “Rewards and punishments. This is a challenge, after all.” 

You were leaping off the bed, an eager squeal escaping your lips as you ran over to your closet. “As for my reward, I’d like to use my vibrator on both of you. Hands restrained of course.” You crouch to shuffle some things out of the way, tugging at a pink container. “You two can come up with your own reward for if I lose. The punishments sort themselves right out.” You can hear undressing happening behind you, neither man commenting yet. 

You found your sink blindfold, a pair of handcuffs, and your favorite vibrator. Setting the two “reward” items off to the side for when you inevitably won this little bet. “So, what do you two want if I lose?” The tension in your legs has the muscles feeling like jelly, only intensified when you saw that Caleb and Sylus had shed every layer of clothing in that short time. 

You freeze, blindfold still clutched in your grasp as your mouth opens and closes. “No extra study time before we start, sweetie.” Sylus’ evol is wrapping around your waist, doing the hard work of walking for you as Caleb’s evol gently plucks the blindfold from your hands. 

“Can’t have you cheating, you know. Wouldn’t be fair.” You’re placed squarely in front of Sylus, unable to sneak one last glance down at either of their stiff cocks before his mouth is hot and wet against your own. You gasp into the kiss, shivering as his warm hands slide around your waist. Your shirt is being tugged on almost immediately, the force of it nearly causing you to stumble back before another hard body is pressing into your skin. 

“Sy, it’s usually my job to be rough…” Caleb’s voice makes you jump, right next to your ear and hot on your skin. “Let me get the blindfold on her.” Your eyes open briefly as your shirt is tugged off, satisfactory groans emitting from both men when they see nothing but a pair of lacy panties clinging to your hips. 

“Ah ah, baby. No peeking.” You catch one last glance at Caleb’s flushed cheeks before the blindfold is placed over your eyes. Your head is pushed forward, fingers instinctively reaching out for Sylus as his fingers tug at your lace. “Tie it tightly, colonel.” He already sounds wrecked, your lips parting in anticipation for the kiss that crashes against your mouth once more. 

The movement doesn’t stop Caleb from effectively, even as Sylus devours your tongue. You barely hear his little content “done” too engulfed in shoving your own tongue right back down Sylus’ throat. Your nails dig into the heated skin of his shoulders, grounding you to him as Caleb presses his cock against the swell of your ass. “Can’t even focus enough to see your actions through, Sy? What happened to getting these off?” 

You feel their fingers brush, Caleb’s tapping at Sylus’. He’s got your lacey panties twisted up in his grip, tugging them to one side while simultaneously tugging them up. You gasp into the warm cavern of Sylus’ mouth, forcing yourself up on your tip toes before the pressure becomes too much to bear. “Easy…” Caleb’s voice sounds like it vibrates his chest, gripping Sylus’ fingers to release them. “You’re gonna give our baby a burn with all that friction.” 

You and Sylus part with a gasp, noses still pressing together as you both drag in some much needed air. Your world is still dark, the silk blindfold barely letting in a tinge of light from your surrounding bedroom. “She knows when to tell me to stop.” Sylus murmurs, the kiss that follows is softer, as if solidifying his words. “S’okay Cal, it felt good…” 

“Mm, I’m sure. But let’s not forget…” His nose scrunches slightly, amused as Sylus buries his face in your neck to suck and nibble on your pulse. “There are some high stakes in this little game. And Sy and I haven’t even decided on our reward when you lose.” 

“M’not gonna l-lose, Caleb!” Your sentence tapers off with a moan as the sharpness of Sylus’ canines dent your skin. “Time will tell.” You gasp as you feel Caleb’s evol tugging Sylus back from you, the other man cursing under his breath as he’s set down a few feet away. You can only feel the absence of warmth, your hands now clinging to nothing. 

“How exactly do you plan on doing this, hmm?” Sylus’ voice filled the space as Caleb gingerly tugged your panties down. “Do you want to use your hands, your mouth, or your cunt?” You felt oddly vulnerable stepping out of your underwear, neither man touching you momentarily as Caleb tossed the garment off to the side. “I think my pussy would be the best. Given that there is much more to be felt if I use my hands or mouth.” 

Hell, you were pretty sure you’d be able to tell Sylus and Caleb apart based on the texture of their pubic hair. It was absolutely ridiculous but you truly wanted to challenge yourself. “Sounds good, princess.” You yelp as Caleb’s evol lifts you to quickly deposit you on your bed. You fall backwards, catching yourself on your elbows as you feel warmth crawl over you. 

“Sy had his fun, now I can have mine.” You barely make a sound before Caleb’s lips are crashing into yours with the same level of ferocity that Sylus had. The strength you used to keep yourself up diminished the second Caleb pinned you down. Being extra mindful to not press his cock against you, even if it killed him. “Look at your hips, colonel.” 

Sylus was slightly muffled over the noises of your mouth, Caleb’s teeth biting down on your kiss-swollen lips only added to your melting mind. “Humping the air like a dog in a rut.” Sylus’ hands slid over Caleb’s thick thighs, inching up to his hips before cruelly dragging his nails down his skin. Caleb’s breathing stuttered at the feeling, hips bucking hard and narrowly missing your heated skin. 

“You act as if I was being feral with her, now look at you? Damn near pathetic.” Precum dripped onto your abdomen, Caleb’s cock leaking needily at the feeling of Sylus’ degradation. “You want me to touch your cock, colonel? Or are you worried you’ll be too spent before our baby has a chance to feel you and make her best guess?” Reluctantly, Caleb pulled away from your mouth, placing two chaste kisses before turning away entirely. 

“You love to run your mouth, boss-man.” Even with the blindfold, you could feel their glares, you could feel the tension. The type you simply had to fuck out of each other. “Boys, please.” The noise is something akin to a croak, your cunt throbbing with need. “The quicker I win this challenge, the quicker I can get you two off. Just… you both have to prep me…” 

They were big, massive even. Just what their already inflated egos needed. They both owned a cock that was large enough to warrant their cockiness. It kinda pisses you off sometimes. 

“Sorry, baby. Blame Sy for trying to start shit.” The kiss that followed landed on your sternum instead of your lips, wet and hot as he trails himself to your left breast. “Am I even invited to this party?” Sylus’ voice is gruff, the comment sarcastic as the bed dips. “Sylus…” nothing else seems to leave your mouth, Caleb’s lips suckling your perked nipple into his mouth and effectively short circuiting your brain.

You feel them shifting around you, Caleb settling to one side while Sylus settles on the other. Both keeping their lower halves away from you entirely. “My pretty girl.” Sylus’ voice sounds right next to your ear, a large hand covering the breast Caleb isn’t sucking on. “You’re so cute.” He squeezes, the feeling of your pliant flesh molding around his hand makes your back arch. 

“Does Caleb’s mouth feel good? He’s really slobbering all over your breast.” Sylus nips at your jaw, breath hot on your skin as you feel another hand slowly sliding down your stomach. You guess it’s Caleb’s, his mouth too preoccupied to shoot something back at Sylus for being snarky. “I-it feels really good…!” You spread your legs further, encouraging the hand lower. 

“Should the colonel and I finger your pretty pussy together? Or do you want one of us to play with your clit while the other fingers your sweet spot?” You feel blood rush to your face, thankful for the blindfold because you’re not sure you’d be able to meet his gaze otherwise. “Fuck sake, Sylus…” you draw out every letter in his name, trembling as the hand rests on your pubic bone. 

“Answer us, sweetie.” Your mind feels fuzzy already, and all you can think about is that smart mouth being occupied with something else. “Sy, I want you to eat my pussy while Caleb keeps it spread for you.” The noises they make have you mewling. Caleb’s groan vibrates your chest, his teeth clamping down on your nipple so hard you thrash slightly. The hand moves lower immediately – Caleb’s – and gingerly spreads your lips apart. 

“Good girl, saying exactly what she wants. Just like we taught you.” A soft kiss lingers on your heated cheek before the bed shifts again. “Don’t get distracted Colonel, maybe she’ll let you have a taste after.” Caleb’s eyes flicker down momentarily, watching Sylus kneel on the floor at the foot of the bed. “Easy.” Whispered, and Caleb barely unlatches from your breast as Sylus grabs your ankles and tugs you down. “You’re on a roll tonight.” 

It’s spit at Sylus, and you can’t help but reach blindly for Caleb to return to you, fingers sliding back down to spread you again as Sylus hooks both of your knees over his shoulders. “Just have to make sure everything is up to our baby’s standards, Colonel. Is that such a crime?” Caleb grumbles something unintelligible, turning his head back to your blindfolded one. 

His lips start to litter kisses over your skin again, kissing down to your breasts and purposely leaning over you to plant a wet kiss upon your neglected nipple. “Are you okay with me staying on this side or should I switch before Sy starts?” You ponder for a moment, lips parted as short, uneven breaths puff past your lips. You can feel Sylus, his hands, the slow exhales ghosting your spread cunt. It makes it really, really hard to think for a moment. 

“Just… keep doing what you’re doing. I don’t mind the reach.” Your hand comes up to blindly search for his head, his hand catching your flailing arm a moment later and directing it properly. “May I start?” Your fingers instinctively twitch in Caleb’s hair when Sylus speaks, your voice waivers as you give him the green light. 

Stars seem to explode across your covered eyes the moment Sylus’ tongue comes in contact with your twitching clit. One thick, long lick along the length of your cunt. Starting at your weeping entrance and ending with his lips wrapping around the pulsating bud. “O-oh!” Caleb’s head dips down again, leaning over you to suckle on your neglected nipple. 

His hand remains steady, two fingers keeping you spread nice and pretty for Sylus. “You taste s’good.” Each word is muffled against your cunt, body feeling hot all over as Caleb huffs a laugh against your breast. “S’rude to talk with your mouthful, boss-man.” The hypocrisy would be laughable if they weren’t attacking your weak spots all at once. 

“Get over yourself, colonel.” Still muffled, his mouth too full of your cunt to properly get the words out. Not that you mine, the sensation is drool worthy, making you clench and flutter around nothing at all. “Gotta get her nice and wet, boss-man. I need her to take us real easy.” Caleb retreats from your chest, your hand extended after him. 

Before you can ask him where he’s going, you jump as you hear Caleb spit. His saliva lands on your cunt, right above Sylus’ nose. His tongue had been preoccupied with your entrance, lapping at every drop of your arousal. “Suckin’ her dry isn’t going to help us much.” You expect Sylus to retort, to pull away from his meal and fire something back at Caleb. 

Instead, he pulls away enough to spit too, tongue flicking over your soaking clit a moment later, licking up every drop of the mess they had made. You couldn’t see it, fuck you wanted to see it so bad. You nearly reached up to pull the blindfold free, it’s not like the test had started yet. Instead, Caleb’s evol weighed your hands down, Sylus’ evol instantly wrapped around your thighs to keep them snuggly over his shoulders. “Don’t you dare peek, baby. We can always recreate this for you later.” 

You whined, head falling back against the mattress as you breathed out. “M’gonna cum…” 

“That fast? That just might be a record.” Caleb sat by the foot of the bed, fingers still spreading you as wide as your folds would allow. Watching Sylys devour your cunt as if it were the man’s last meal. His cock was throbbing, leaking precum all over his taut abdomen, the tip an angry red. Every part of his mind screamed to touch himself, but he resisted. His free hand threading through Sylus’ hair and guiding him in a repetitive motion. 

“Just like that, you can see her thighs tensing, Sy. She’s so close to cumming for you. You’re such a good boy…” You can’t stop the whimper that escapes you, Sylus’ groan vibrating your cunt in a way that has your entire body tensing up in anticipation. “And you…” You can't see, but you can feel Caleb’s eyes on you. Eyeing your spit slicked chest, the little bruises forming all over. “You’re being such a good girl, you have our permission to cum, baby.” 

You grit your teeth, fingers twitching erratically as you search for something to grab but Caleb’s evol is keeping you in place. You barely twist around the blanket before you’re shattering all together, entire body tensing as whimpers and moans fall from your lips. “N-No more! Please! S’too much!!” Sylus never stopped sucking, lathering your overly sensitive clit until your hips thrashed and your body went slack against the sheets. “Ease up.” 

Caleb’s hand was still in Sylus’ hair, the colonel gripping harder and yanking him back from your cunt. The air seemed to stutter in your lungs, sweet relief making your bones feel like jello. “Don’t start.” Sylus’ words are a hushed hiss, enough to make your own skin prickle from the intensity. The two of them always fought like cats, irritating the other on purpose. 

Caleb must have let go, because Sylus had begun to place random little kisses over your cunt and thighs. “We’re going to start the true test now, sweetie.” Both men had stepped away from the bed, just their voices letting you know they were still present. “Y-you still haven’t told me what you want if I lose. I-I need to know how high these stakes are.” You were greeted by a few beats of silence. You assumed they were looking between each other to figure it out. 

“If you are unable to differentiate by our dicks.” Caleb started slowly, still nowhere near you. “Then we’re going to try double penetration, same hole.” Sylus finished, and they could see your jaw go slack at the idea. “I thought you two were against that! You said it would hurt me too much when I begged for it last time!” Really, your punishment would be another reward. 

“Should we begin?” Evasion was their tactic, not willing to express why the sudden change of heart. Despite it, you’re grinning, legs still spread and waiting. “Yes! Please… I need you both so badly.” They both acknowledged you with their own noises, and then silence enveloped you again save for the slight shuffling. You could feel one of them standing between your thighs, their hands gathering your legs up and pushing them towards your chest. 

This new position allowed for whoever was touching you to get on the bed with you. They were similar in height, and you couldn’t possibly tell by the way the mattress dips around them. Even their hands were relatively similar in size. At that moment, you truly couldn't tell who was on you right now. You shift a little at the silence, finding it a tad comical. Maybe you should have thought about putting on some sort of music or maybe even the tv…

“Oh…!” His cock slid along your glistening, puffy folds. Though you couldn’t think about that for much longer as the bed suddenly dipped again. “B-both of you?!” Neither man would respond, fearing their voice would give away their position. But it made more sense for them to do this together. If you could decipher who one was, by process of elimination it would be painfully obvious who the other was. 

The second cock was also prodding at your folds, slapping against the other with a wet thump. Your lips press together, swallowing up the whines begging to claw out of your throat. Both men take turns rubbing their aching cocks on your cunt, letting you feel them, memorize every curve and vein, letting you try and figure out who was who. 

Sylus was long, curving up slightly. And he was thick, painfully thick but you had come to crave that stretch. To the point nothing else could really satisfy you… except Caleb. He wasn’t as long as Sylus, but even then the difference came down to centimeters. He was just as thick too, but he swelled a bit just below his head before slimming out by the base. You truly believed you’d be able to tell the difference, the way they’d notch in just right, muscle memory. 

Before you could open your mouth to whine about their teasing, you could feel the thick head of one of their cocks positioned at your entrance. Your lips parted, a sigh of relief tumbling out as the pressure built. You were soaked, there was truly no resistance to slip inside, but they held themself back. Pressing just enough that their head stretched your entrance but not going further. “D-don’t tell me that’s all you’re going to give!” 

Still, no verbal response was given. They were playing dirty. 

They pulled back, the sensation fleeting as you immediately started tugging against their makeshift evol restraints. “That is so not fair! Hell, just for that I want to say it’s…” Sylus. But you stop yourself, if you threw away your answer that quickly and were incorrect you’d feel like a fool. You had to win this, had to prove them wrong. 

The dribbling head of a cock is pressing against your entrance again, and you can immediately feel that it’s different. “You guys changed places…” And for a moment, you feel his hips stutter. A victorious little smirk curls your lips, they really didn’t think you’d notice? 

Whoever was pressing into you began pushing in all the way, your jaw going slack at how easily they slipped in. Maybe you were a little too wet, you had been certain you’d know if it was Caleb based on his shape. But your cunt was too slippery, too ready. “Oh my fuck…” They slide into the hilt, leaving you impossibly full before carefully, agonizingly, pulling out. 

He repeated the motion, thrusting experimentally while gripping your calves for support. Your velvety walls clench, clamping down on the man inside of you in a way that has you moaning. Still, he keeps thrusting, struggling a little with the way you’re gripping him but thrusting nonetheless. “Oh fuck… that feels s-so good… Sylus!” 

All movements ceased, your brain taking a second to process you had just uttered a name. “C’mon…” You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to feign confidence. “Tell me if I was right! I have to be, I know you too well!” Your body does, even if your brain doesn’t want to cooperate initially. Instead of a verbal response, the man inside of you pulls out altogether. 

You don’t bother complaining, feeling them shifting around before someone else is pressing at your entrance. The plunge is quick, deep ,and devastating all at once. Your mind swims in the euphoria of being filled again. Those hips working you at a normal pace, until… 

“This is still Sylus! Quit trying to trick me, I know I’m right!” Only then do you finally hear some noise, the kind of chuckle that could only be Caleb. “Well shit, baby. You’re one smart cookie.” You’re slightly startled as the blindfold is removed, blinking rapidly to clear your vision. It takes you a second to adjust, but sure enough, Sylus is the one plunged inside of you. 

“You were right both times, sweetie.” He was twitching now, utterly turned on that you could truly pick him out just based on the shape of his cock. “This pretty pussy was made for me.” Caleb moves to slap the back of Sylus’ head but –wisely – stops himself. “I think Sy has more than enough time with your cunt, baby. I haven’t had a single bit.” Caleb is pouting, fingers running along your bent leg before moving further up the bed. 

“In your dreams, Colonel. You can lick her clean after I cum in her.” 

You gasp at that, cunt instinctively clamping down around his length. “Let me suck you off, Cal. I’ll make you feel better.” Sylus starts moving again, tugging your legs up to rest over his shoulders yet again. His body weight follows, squishing you into the mattress to better piston his cock in and out of your fluttering entrance. “You heard her, give her your cock.” 

The angle Sylus had contorted you in was proving to make that a tad difficult. Your head and upper body twisting towards Caleb enough that he finally let his evol relax. Your arms are freed from their invisible prison. “Sylus, can’t you fuck me in doggy? It would be easier…!” Months of being their lover has truly taught you to forgo any shame or embarrassment. “You are the winner, sweetie. Whatever you want, I’ll do.” 

You’re manoeuvred without Sylus so much as pulling half way out, your legs suddenly struggling to support your weight as they dig into the mattress. “They’re asleep, hmm? The colonel and I had you bent out of shape for too long.” Large, hot hands grab your waist, hoisting you up and supporting you. “Don’t tease me, Sy. Caleb, sit in front of me.” You stated your orders without hesitance, trying to get everything in order before Sylus completely wrecked you. “Yes ma’am.” He shuffles, nearly collapsing against the headboard with his legs spread around you and Sylus. His cock looked beyond needy, so red at the tip it could be considered purple. “Poor baby, Sy didn’t give you a chance, huh?” Caleb’s cheeks are flushed, his abdomen shining with the arousal that had been oozing out of him. 

“Nope, he’s hogged you this whole time and I’ve been such a good boy barely complaining.” You wanted to laugh, the roles switching between the three of you always happened without you realizing it until you were too deep in. You reach for him, fingers wrapping around his mid-section and bringing his tip right to your lips. 

Sylus starts moving again, hips setting a brutal but satisfying pace. You don’t bother licking or teasing, your jaw goes slack as you shove the fat head of Caleb’s cock between your lips. A symphony of sounds fill the bedroom, the lewd slurping of your mouth around his cock, the sinful slap of skin hitting skin, and the harmonies of moans and groans filling the space. 

Your eyes welled with tears as you forced your mouth further down his length. Every drag of Sylus’ his had his cock pressing against your sweet spot, only adding to the onslaught of tears dripping down your face. “Feels so good, baby, don’t stop.” Caleb’s hand was hot as it landed on the back of your head, cruelly shoving more of his length into your mouth. “Careful, Caleb.” Sylus’ voice was a strained warning, cock throbbing between your velvety soft walls as a loud gag restricted your throat. 

“If you hurt her I’ll have to make sure to return the favor.” The implications were loud and clear, and Sylus couldn’t help but laugh as your cunt suctioned to him. “Oh, you like the sounds of that, baby? Like the thought of me throat fucking Caleb?” The room was spinning, the pleasure so overwhelming you felt like you’d pass out from the intensity. Your noise of response was a garbled mess, drool dripping down your chin as Caleb eased up. 

“I-I’d love to see you try, Boss-man.” His cheeks are red, sweat beading at his temple as you suck him off. He’s close already, abdomen and thighs flexing every time you swallow around him. Your hands find their way to his skin, clawing roughly and leaving bright red nail marks in your wake. The pleasure is overwhelming, your cunt feeling so good that you’re struggling to resist the urge of crawling away from Sylus’ relentless hips. 

“Y-you’re going to cum, aren’t you, pretty girl? I can feel it.” Sylus’ fingers dig into the fat of your hips, dragging you back to meet his hips again and again and… 

Something akin to a scream tore out of you, warm liquid spraying down Sylus’ thighs as your cunt spasmed erratically. The motion causes you to take Caleb deeper, his thick head hitting the back of your throat. His orgasm was just as sudden, head tossing back hard enough that he nearly knocked it on your headboard. Sylus watched with a slack jaw, the tension in his gut tightening until he couldn’t contain himself any longer. 

White hot ropes of cum spill inside of you, painting your walls a sticky white. You could barely process anything, tugging your head back and swallowing whatever of Caleb’s release didn’t dribble down your chin. Your poor arms truly felt like jelly now, head thumping against Caleb’s thigh as you struggled to catch your breath. The warmth of Sylus bending over you had your eyelids feeling heavy. “You did so good, are you alright?” A gentle kiss on your hot cheek. 

“I didn’t hurt you, right?” Caleb’s hand had loosened its grip on you, running his fingers over the hair he had tousled. “M’good, it felt great.” Your words slurred together, cheek pressing hard into Caleb’s thigh as you felt sleep claw at your eyes. “You did win the bet, after all. You were able to tell who was who based on their dick… even if I never got a chance to be inside…” Caleb pouted slightly, glaring at Sylus who only grinned wickedly in response. 

“If she’s not too tired, you can always clean her up.” You blink your eyes open, blearily looking up at both men. “M’sleepy but I wouldn’t mind cuddling while Caleb cleans me up.” Sylus was still plugging you up, keeping every drop inside of your warm cunt. “You heard the woman, Colonel. You’re not gonna back down, right?” 

“Course m’not.” Caleb looked honestly offended by the idea, as if he’d ever turn down a chance to eat your pussy. “You just gotta remove yourself from her, boss-man… hogging her this whole time…” Clearly, Caleb was still annoyed by the whole thing. “Eh, it’s so warm in here, I think I’d like to give myself another minute or two.” Caleb’s mouth fell open, an incredulous look on his face. “You’re a real piece of work, Sylus.” A deep chuckle followed, the tension steadily building once again. 

Despite the exhaustion creeping up your spine, you had a feeling your night was far from over. 

but it was true — satoru was carrying your child, and he had no idea what to do with himself.

he knew, as a transgender man, that pregnancy was possible, but the notion still unsettled him; only now does he realise how much he took the risk for granted. he was on birth control, the kind that prevents 99% of these troubles, but you didn’t know that.

you thought he’d had a hysterectomy years ago, thought fucking him raw was harmless so long as he kept up with the necessary std screenings. and he did, of course, because you forced him to. but now, as he sits there with cold air filling his lungs, the truth settles heavily.

he has to run. gather as much money as he can, maybe even a little extra, and then vanish completely. get out of here. new name, new address, new everything.

it’s the only alternative he can see.

“is something the matter, ’toru? why is this door locked?” you ask from the other side of the bathroom door, irritation edging your voice, startling him back into reality.

he waits a few seconds before replying, pushing himself to his feet and leaning over the sink as a wave of nausea rolls through him. he still manages to sing back in that cloying tone you know so well — that flamboyant, saccharine lilt you love and loathe in equal measure.

“yes, daddy! i’ve just finished up. i’ll be out in a second~”

you hum quietly in response.

“if you want to waste the water, you’ll have to pay with more than just your body. hurry up.”

you walk away, and that’s when he finally exhales a sharp, painful breath of air. when he lifts his head to the mirror, his reflection stares straight back, and for a moment he feels unmoored, like he’s slipped a little outside himself.

suddenly he’s far too aware of everything: the shape of his body, the weight of it, the tightness behind his eyes, the problems gathering like storm clouds.

he doesn’t want to think about any of it right now, but he doesn’t want to disappoint you tonight either.

you’re settled comfortably on the bed, book in hand, looking at him over the rim of your spectacles. something in the way he moves is off — not wrong, but different enough to prick at you. you can’t pinpoint the reason, and you don’t care enough to try verbally prodding at him. if it’s about the contract, that’s for another time. right now, you just want to fuck him.

it’s been a long, exhausting week.

you pat the sheets beside you in slow circles, beckoning him closer. when he comes over, he leans in and simply collapses into you, damp skin cooling against your side. it’s unlike him — this hush and smallness surrounding him. not timid in the sweet sense, just… diminished. and the longer he lingers like that, the more it gets on your nerves. you don’t enjoy guessing games.

but still, you don’t push him away.

nights like this have become routine, though usually only after sex — when he’s too wrecked to move, too spent to rinse off. you don’t mind his warmth against you in the dead of night; he’s easier to handle like this, resting quietly instead of bickering or teasing you raw.

“watcha readin’?” he quips, flipping the page before you’ve finished the last.

maybe you spoke too soon — he still has that little menace in him.

“a romance. two lovers,” you say plainly.

“the type where they live happily ever after?”

a shallow hiccup slips from him, and when you look down, his face is pressed into your gown, one cheek squished soft, snow‑white lashes fanned over his skin. he looks strangely young like this, peaceful in a way he rarely allows.

“yes… that kind.”

satoru hums, tilting his head upside down to see the cover. his damp hair falls with the motion, brushing your thigh, cold strands tickling along your exposed skin.

the title reads: my pretty heroine.

“huh… never heard of it,” he says innocently — not that he ever pretended to read, but the title was popular among teenage girls. you snap the book shut without warning, making him flinch. when you lean over to place it on the nightstand, satoru swallows hard. your cologne was already strong, but now, with your body opening up around him, it hits him deeper, thicker in his lungs.

it reminds him of last night’s extracurriculars.

“be honest,” he chirps softly, “i’m the only one that makes you feel this way, hehe.”

“countless whores before you have had their fair share of attention.”

satoru pouts, a faint ache blooming in his chest. he rolls his eyes at you. “that’s not what i meant. like… i’m the only one who gets to see you like this, when you make those sexy expressions as you fuck me.” he giggles, though it’s threaded with something more fragile.

you raise an eyebrow, slowing your thrusts until they stop altogether. he loops his arms around your neck, fingers playing with the tiny baby hairs there as if they’re a comfort. “i suppose so…” you murmur, resuming a slow, deliberate grind into him, your mouth brushing a kiss along his jaw.

“but the only thing i feel for you,” you say, rubbing circles against his clit, drawing a weak, breathy moan from him, “is lust. and a very primal need to breed this tight little pussy of yours. so don’t get ahead of yourself, satoru. you’re not any better than the rest.”

he grimaces at you, half-joking and half-bruised. “y’know i can’t get pregnant…”

though that isn’t what he wants to say. the words that sit heavy behind his teeth are ‘why can’t you just choose me?’

as if you haven’t been choosing him this entire time.

satoru always carried that longing — that quiet, desperate want for the care and safety you showed him as your only sugar baby. you saw it as simple respect, basic decency; he saw it as something deeper, something rare. as if he actually meant something to you.

you kiss him before he can spiral further, and he startles slightly, eyelashes fluttering. a soft blush dusts his cheeks, and he lets out a shaky moan when you drag warm, wet kisses down his neck.

“focus, satoru.”

he adores the way his name sounds in your mouth. he adores the way your hands know exactly where to touch him.

“i—”

before he can finish, you grab his jaw, tilting his face up, pulling him into a deeper, hungrier kiss. he yields instantly, mouth falling open for you, letting your tongue slide in, brushing over the cool metal of his piercing as he whimpers into you.

after a few more seconds, you break the kiss and trail down his body, fingers drifting over his skin in feather‑light touches as you help him shrug out of his gown. it slips to his waist and pools against the bed, leaving his chest bare to the cool air. he shivers, delicate, almost startled by how exposed he feels.

he never understood it — the way you touched him. how a single kiss pressed to the faint line of his top surgery scars could make his mind somersault, could make him liquefy beneath your hands. tonight your touch feels different: softer, gentler, threaded with something that almost resembles compassion knotted together with his previous mood.

satoru isn’t sure if you picked up on his strangeness earlier or if you’re simply in a generous mood.

he doesn’t want to guess which it is. even if he can never have you fully, even if he’ll never be yours in the way he aches for, this is enough. for now.

you take one of his nipples between your teeth and pinch the other, and satoru’s cunt leaks helplessly from the teasing, the slow burn of your attention winding him tight. his thighs twitch upwards, rubbing together instinctively, brushing against your elbow where it rests beside him. your hand clamps down on his hips, firm and possessive and anchoring him.

you move lower, slipping beneath the fallen silk until your face meets the heat of his pussy. you spread him open with deliberate ease, licking from the bottom of his slit right up to his clit before sucking down hard.

and that’s when it hits him — a suddenly sharp wave of nausea. the pleasure falters, his moans stutter out, replaced by a low, uncomfortable groan.

you surface immediately, eyebrow raised. “what’s wrong?”

his eyes widen, panic rising beneath the flush of his skin. the warmth rolling off him turns feverish.

“n-no… it’s okay, i can continue.”

“satoru.”

“i’m feeling fine, really. it’s nothing to worry about.”

“satoru…”

“just a sudden wave of—”

“satoru!!”

the sharpness of your voice galvanises him; he jolts and stares at you, wide‑eyed and dumbfounded, breath catching in his throat.

“s-sorry…” he whispers, voice barely audible, eyes fixed somewhere far from yours. you shift from lying against his stomach to a sitting position, dragging a hand through your hair with a weary sigh.

“if you’re not up for it tonight, i won’t force you.”

the words hit him like a blow. they shouldn’t, not really, but they do. why does he feel like this? like something just cracked inside him and left everything too loud.

you don’t notice it, but there’s a surge of emotion rising in his chest, bitter and hot and humiliating. the urge to cry bubbles up before he can bury it. he exhales slowly, shakily.

“i’ll get ready for bed, then.”

he turns, meaning to slip out quietly, but you catch his wrist before he can take a single step. your fingers curl firm around the joint.

“sleep here tonight.”

his head stays bowed as he mutters something under his breath — something soft and half-swallowed. you barely catch the end of it: “but at the same time you don’t…”

“satoru… you know how i feel about mumbling—”

“why do you care so much?!”

the words burst out of him before he can stop them, too loud and raw. it makes your body tense immediately. you tilt your head, stretching your neck until a crack echoes sharp in the room, tongue dragging over your teeth as your jaw tightens.

“i’d rather you didn’t throw up on the expensive silk without warning.”

of course. of fucking course.

who am i kidding?

he lowers his head further, nodding, throat tight. the heat in his chest spreads out into a cold burn. it has nothing to do with how you feel — not really. he knows that. he’s always known that. but sometimes, he still forgets that you’re not capable of loving someone like him.

you tighten your grip slightly, enough to make him look up. your head inclines, your eyes scanning him, waiting for his full focus to rise to yours.

“so… sleep here tonight. i shouldn’t have to say it twice. get changed. go to bed.”

you let go of him and he leaves slowly, fingers rubbing at the spot where your hand held his wrist. the hallway is quiet, dim, and familiar. a few minutes later, he returns, caught in a quiet moment of déjà vu. the same routine as before you found him in the bathroom.

you’re sitting on the bed, spectacles low on the bridge of your nose, reading the same book as before. your hair’s messier now, strands falling forward, and your expression is twisted differently — not angry, just sour.

he doesn’t say anything. just climbs onto the other side of the bed, facing away from you, pulling the covers up over his bare shoulders. but just before you reach to turn out the lights, he speaks quietly and hesitantly — enough to be heard.

“goodnight, y/n. tomorrow, i’ll make it up to you.”

you lift your gaze from the pages of your book, eyes settling on the sulking man curled beside you. your sigh is softer this time, less irritated than before, trying not to reflect his terrible mood.

“you know,” you murmur, “you’re exactly how i imagine a wet puppy would behave.”

“what?”

your teasing catches him off guard with the sudden change of mood, but he still doesn’t face you, buried in the sheets, soaking in whatever warmth he can get. he hears you shifting — the quiet rustle of you putting your things away, the creak of the lamp switching off.

then, without warning, you press yourself against his back, sliding into a loose spoon, one arm tucked beneath his neck and the other curling across his stomach.

the warmth of you hits him like a sigh through his chest.

“you’ve got a job to do,” you mutter near his ear, tone even. “you know i don’t tolerate much nonsense, especially not this kind of behaviour. i keep this going for your sake because it benefits me, too. everything better be back to normal tomorrow morni—”

but you don’t get to finish.

satoru is already out cold, little snores escaping his mouth like steam off a mug. you stare at him, stunned for a second, then huff against the back of his neck.

“what am i going to do with you… truly…”

your voice is quiet, fond despite yourself. you settle deeper into the mattress, into him, and let the night swallow you both.

morning comes faster than you expect.

you’re woken by the smell of something burning that leaves a sharp, bitterly smell in your nose, enough to sting faintly. groggily, you blink up at the ceiling, turn beneath the sheets, assuming satoru’s gone.

but he’s still there.

still curled beside you, still fast asleep. and now that you really look, something seems… off. he looks thinner, more drained than usual. pale under the light.

you frown but don’t say anything. instead, you slide out of bed and follow the smell to the kitchen, bracing yourself for whatever culinary disaster awaits you.

this wasn’t new.

the gesture was sweet, but you’d caught him like this before — elbows-deep in some ridiculous plan to surprise you. last time it was weed brownies.

an utter failure. not because he burned them, but because he got the dose wrong and accidentally got you high enough to fuck him for over twenty-four hours straight.

you still remember the headache that followed — not just from the sex, but from the paranoia that came after. if anyone found out you were into edibles, if anyone linked you to cannabis use, it would shred your public image. scandal, gossip, judgement — not worth it, actually.

and his punishment for that little escapade? a week of enforced celibacy. no sex, no phone calls, no touching himself — nothing. it wasn’t even that long, really. you’d been away on business longer. but for satoru, with his libido?

it was hell.

and that was precisely the point. you wanted him to learn. properly. the hard way.

and that was saying a lot…

when you return from the kitchen after cleaning up his godawful mess, you find him in the exact same position as before — curled into himself, snug and silent, like your bed and the lingering scent of you wrapped around him was his own private paradise.

his soft moans, though, are anything but angelic, were enough to make your expression twist in visible amusement.

“get up.”

“hmmmmfdfdjkfhghdkf???” he groans, incoherent, stretching and rolling lazily over onto your side of the bed. his eyes crack open, still heavy with sleep, lashes sticking together as he tries to focus on you.

“get your breakfast.” you sit on the edge of the bed with your back to him, voice cool and detached as your back muscles flex taut.

he pouts, reaching for you, but his arms are too short to bridge the distance.

“i tried to… but then… i got sleepy, and here i am.” he sinks back into the mattress with a sigh, eyes fluttering closed again — only to jolt upright seconds later.

“the omelettes?!?!?!”

“you don’t need to worry that. i cleaned it up already.” you glance at him, catching the state of his messy hair before turning away again. satoru stares, uncertain. he can’t quite read your mood, can’t decide if you’re angry or just unimpressed, or something else entirely.

“i have a business meeting today.” you cross to his side of the bed, and as you lean over the nightstand, he stills. for a single, traitorous moment, he thinks you’re going to kiss him.

he squeezes his eyes shut, heart thumping, breath caught in the back of his throat.

but nothing comes.

he opens them to find you standing in front of the mirror, straightening your necktie, adjusting your watch. the disappointment is immediate. he exhales, long and quiet and more than a little pathetic.

“be ready by 12:30. i’ll send someone to come collect you.”

“and afterwards?” he asks, voice softer now, more cautious.

you meet his gaze in the reflection, expression unreadable. “afterwards, i’ll go home with you.”

he blinks, uncertain again — unsure if that’s reassurance or some sort of warning. but before he can say anything else, your next words drop like a stone in his gut.

“a doctor will come by to check on your health. i don’t want you passing out before i fuck you. that’s part of the process.”

he nods, slowly, caught in the undertow of your cold practicality. “okay…” he mumbles, stretching out the syllables without realising.

you don’t offer a goodbye. you just leave — stepping through the door, shutting it behind you like the end of a sentence. he stays still for a while, blank-eyed, staring into space, until another wave of panic suddenly crashes over him.

the test.

the fucking test.

he forgot to hide the pregnancy test in the bathroom.

surely you saw it. you must’ve. you showered this morning. and he’d left it right there — plain as anything — sat on the sink.

heart pounding, he rips the covers off and bolts straight to the bathroom.

there it is, right where he left it.

“that’s odd,” he murmurs, voice soft, echoing faintly off the tiled walls. he glances around — the shower's bone dry. maybe you didn’t see it after all. maybe you didn’t shower this morning. or maybe you used a different bathroom not to wake him up? that in itself feels strange — you were always hyper-aware of small things. details never slipped past you.

outside, as you approach the black chevy suburban, a sneeze tingles at the back of your throat but doesn’t come. your thoughts flick back to satoru, circling again and again around the way he acted last night. off. distant. something was clearly wrong.

and it irritated you — not because he was upset, but because you didn’t know why. no control over it. he wouldn’t tell you anything willingly. calling a doctor felt like the only way to figure it out. if it turned out he’d been lying about being unwell... you’d deal with him accordingly.

in the bathroom, satoru’s still staring down at the test. he picks it up, squinting at the two lines readout. a heavy sigh leaves him, his shoulders sagging, body folding inwards like the weight of it all is finally settling in again.

then — a knock.

he jumps, scrambling out of the bathroom just as one of your bodyguards appears in the doorway. satoru's completely naked. unbothered.

if he remembers right, the guy’s name is mr fushiguro. total knockout.

he leans against the doorframe, eyes glinting, lips curled in an amused little grin. it’s a bad idea — a stupid one, in fact — but still, the thought crosses his mind: would he be better in bed than you?

dangerous.

mr fushiguro visibly cringes under the gaze. he clears his throat. again.

“mr l/n’s just informed me he wants you there earlier than planned. please get ready.”

satoru rolls his eyes with a groan, dragging his feet dramatically as he moves to the wardrobe. he takes his time — deliberately. feet scuffing the carpet, hips swaying just a little too much as he leans over the mirror, checking himself from every angle. he catches fushiguro watching. good.

when he’s finally done (after about an hour of fucking around), he practically prances over, linking his arm with the taller man’s. fushiguro groans low in his throat, clearly unamused.

“let’s be on our way, then~”

when they arrive, the timing’s perfect. you’re just stepping out of the building as your meeting ends. you stride straight toward the car, jacket swaying, all purpose and authority. fushiguro opens the door with his head bowed, and you slide inside without a word.

satoru follows after, settling beside you. you give him a once-over, eyes flicking down his frame and back up, then grin — sharp and amused.

“feeling perkier, are we? don’t think that means you’re getting out of the check-up, though.”

he groans dramatically, slumping down in the seat. “but whyyyyy...! i’m fine. you don’t need to worry about me.”

“mm. sure. should i cancel the appointment, then?” you glance sideways. “go shopping instead?”

his face lights up at that. he looks at you, positively beaming — until he sees your smirk, and realises you’re teasing. cold satire as usual. that smile drops so fast it might as well have shattered.

“ugh…” he groans, turning his head to stare absently out the window. the car is already moving, but the direction’s off — not heading home.

“where are we going?”

“the hospital,” you reply flatly, scrolling through your calendar as you check the rest of your week’s schedule. satoru glances over, one eyebrow cocked.

“i thought you said you were calling a doctor?”

it’s not like money’s ever an issue, especially considering he’s your sugar baby. but this felt unnecessarily complicated, and now he’s confused.

“to be honest,” you say, still not looking up, “i don’t want to deal with my sister-in-law. she said she’d be stopping by around now.”

he inwardly laughs at how childishly petty you can get. to him, that’s charming.

“you’re not going to see her?”

you finally meet his gaze. he sighs.

“okay… dokey then…”

the bodyguard pulls the car to a stop, turns off the ignition, and steps out without a word.

“wear this.”

you toss him a bundle of things — blacked-out sunglasses, a face mask, and a cap. the disguise does next to nothing against the cascade of platinum hair crowning his head, and the designer brands he’s wrapped in scream for attention. you pause, sigh, then shrug off your own jacket and drape it over his shoulders.

“you do realise this is a terrible disguise, right?”

“i know.”

you don’t even bother defending. you duck your head and step out of the vehicle, more out of sheer secondhand embarrassment than a real attempt at anonymity. maybe it was to avoid your family’s judgement, but this? this is somehow worse.

“if you weren’t dressed like a whore, this whole thing would be a lot easier. who wears a mini-skirt to a hospital check-up?”

“i do.”

you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts and satoru giggles.

inside the hospital’s waiting area, you steer him along briskly, guiding satoru toward the seats. mr fushiguro handles reception without needing instruction. your hand slips automatically around satoru’s shoulder, drawing him closer as you stand. your other hand stays deep in your trouser pocket.

you can already feel the eyes. the phones.

from the corner of your vision, you see a few heads turn. people trying to act casual as they unlock their phones under the guise of texting, sliding their cameras up slowly, the angles unmistakable.

it’s not new. being watched. recorded. dragged into headlines with someone of your status.

but lately, the idea of being seen with him, when he’s like this, doesn’t feel like indulgence anymore. it feels like dragging dead weight. or a child, even.

he’s too quiet. too subdued. and it’s pissing you off.

you love flaunting him. love watching people stare, want what you have. but right now, it doesn’t feel like you’re showing off a prize. it feels like babysitting. there is nothing to show off at a hospital, of all places.

your foot taps rhythmically against the tile, a sharp little beat of nerves.

mr l/n caught escorting secret lover to xxxxx hospital in broad daylight?!

yeah. something along those lines.

“a room’s ready, sir.”

mr fushiguro doesn’t turn as he speaks — just tilts his head slightly in your direction. the motion snaps you out of your spiral.

you blink, nod once, then gesture for him to lead the way, your hand lifting briefly in command before dropping again into your pocket. satoru follows, slow and compliant.

it was probably the same room as always — the one you were given every time you visited xxxxx hospital. you knew the way well enough by now, leading yourself through the crowded corridors of the emergency sector, turning corner after corner until you reached it.

satoru trails behind, taking in everything slowly, breath held in little sips. his eyes scan the space inch by inch, soaking in the unfamiliar quiet of the place. the first thing he notices is the decor — naively cheerful, with children’s cartoons lining the walls in bright pastels. he figures it must be your family’s designated room.

it looks small. but it feels... comfortable. something about it settles him. the sunlight pours in thick through the tall windows near the ensuite, casting long golden streaks across the floor. it lends a softness to the air.

“sit on the bed. the doctor should be here soon.”

he looks over at you, reluctant. “are you staying?”

you glance back with a raised brow, expression laced with doubt. “no. why, do you want me to? this should be over shortly.” you pull your blazer sleeve back to check your watch.

“then don’t be here wasting your time with me,” he mutters quickly, gaze flicking away, throat dry as he swallows.

you walk over slowly, stopping between his legs as he perches at the edge of the bed. from there, you look down at him with an unreadable gaze, and lift your hand to brush your knuckles against his cheek. they skim along the corner of his eye before your palm moves to thread gently through his hair.

satoru shivers. blinks. the blur in his vision doesn’t clear, but he looks up at you anyway.

“why are you making this difficult for me? why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

his heart races at the look in your eyes — not quite soft, not exactly hurt, but something deeper than either trust or command. he can’t name it. doesn’t know how to. but it terrifies him.

and then — pain.

he doubles forward, arms wrapping tight around his stomach, a raw, unfiltered sound breaking in his throat. he lets out a sob, eyes squeezed shut, hands reaching for anything — and they find the fabric of your waistcoat, clutching and pulling at it. your body tenses, barely, a faint twitch betraying your stillness as you instinctively catch hold of the hand that’s grabbed you.

“what’s wrong?”

you tilt your head, trying to look past his hunched shape. “why are you acting like this?”

his shoulders shake. he tries to hold it in, tries to pull it all back, but when he lifts his head, the tears spill freely, his face contorted in helplessness.

“it hurrrtsss…”

they streak down his pale cheeks like they’re begging you — fix it. make it stop. do something.

but you don’t know what’s wrong.

you can’t do anything yet.

not until the door opens and the doctor finally walks in.

the doctor strides briskly to the bed, eyes widening as they take in satoru’s pale, clammy face and the way he’s clutching his stomach like something inside is tearing apart. they urge him to lie down, voice low but urgent. satoru complies shakily as if he had a choice to begin with, lowering himself back against the sheets, one hand pressed against his side.

he glances at you.

five full seconds of eye contact — unblinking, almost pleading — and then he vomits blood all over himself.

you lour at the sight, expression hardening, but before you can react, mr fushiguro steps in between you both, his hand lifted in caution.

your glare cuts sideways to the doctor.

“what the fuck is wrong with him? do something!”

“w-we’ll need to run some tests—”

“then run them.”

you feel something twist deep in your chest. a sensation you didn’t want to name. a helpless, useless kind of fury. this wasn’t about appearances anymore, or propriety, or contracts. it hits you, finally, why this is eating at you so much?

you’re worried about him.

but why? why why why?

you’ve never claimed to love him. haven’t even admitted to liking him that way. then why this ache — this tightness you can’t shake?

the doctor calls in two nurses once satoru starts to settle, barking out brief instructions. they gather supplies while he prepares for a blood draw, rolling up the sleeve of satoru’s arm.

but then satoru stirs.

hand trembling, he reaches up, catches the doctor by the tie, and tugs him down to whisper something. breath hot, voice faint, barely audible.

“d-don’t let him find out. please.”

you read it on his lips instantly.

and heat spikes up your neck, fury blooming sharp behind your ribcage. you grab the doctor by the collar, yanking him upright and leaning over satoru, voice raised.

“what are you hiding—?!”

before you can finish, mr fushiguro grabs your arm and pulls you back firmly.

“s-sir…”

you whirl, almost swinging at him, but something stops you. the setting. the beeping monitors. the smell of antiseptic. satoru’s pale, half-conscious body curled on the sheets.

not now. not here.

you exhale hard, dragging a hand through your hair, smoothing it back before adjusting your tie.

“just sort him out,” you say through clenched teeth, “before i find out myself the hard way.”

you step back and watch.

a nurse checks satoru’s vitals — temperature, blood pressure — while the doctor struggles to find a vein, switching between his arm and hand. eventually, the needle goes in, the blood comes, and another nurse sets up an IV drip. it clicks into place with a sterile little hiss, fluids dripping into the line.

satoru lays still. grey. lips parted, breath shallow. his eyes have that sunken, fevered look.

you sit at the foot of the bed. elbows to knees, chin in your hand, thoughts racing. mr fushiguro stands near the door, arms crossed, eventually turning away with a quiet shake of his head.

none of this makes sense.

you always keep track of satoru. where he goes. who he sees. this can’t be from one of his outings — you’d know. you feed him well, clothe him, keep him comfortable. the sex is regular, intense, satisfying. what else is there? were you missing anything?

nothing adds up.

so all you can do is wait.

and wait. and wait.

until finally, while you’re off getting a drink from the vending machine to distract yourself, your back sore from the shitty plastic chair.

the doctor reappears in the room.

satoru glances up. sees him. a heavy breath leaves him like a sigh of surrender. the doctor avoids his gaze, flipping through the report in his hands, pages crinkling.

before he can speak, satoru does.

“i’m pregnant. i’ve known for a while now.”

the doctor sighs. nods. walks over and sets the report down gently on the bedside table.

“that is what the tests confirm, yes. but does mr l/n—”

“he can never know about it.”

satoru rolls onto his side, fingers trembling as they clutch at the doctor’s sleeve.

“you… you can’t tell him… please. he can’t find out — o-otherwise he’ll—”

the words die in his throat, because even imagining the possibilities makes his stomach coil. every version of you finding out ends badly. none of them in ways he could bear. not after hiding it for this long. not after letting the truth rot in him like a secret bruise and denying you of the truth.

so instead he asks the questions that matter.

“will the baby survive? am i… am i going to give birth?”

the doctor’s expression twitches with doubt before they school it into something neutral. “we won’t know unless you stay here under observation. your body’s weakened — likely due to the stress of discovering the pregnancy. we strongly advise you inform mr l/n—”

“no.”

his voice cracks. visibly shaking now, he stares out the window, where warm sunlight spills across his skin in stark contrast to the panic hollowing him out from inside this room.

he cannot find out.

the mantra loops in his head, tight and choking.

after a few strained seconds, he turns back to the doctor, whispers a thank you, and dismisses them. once alone, satoru faces the window again, watching the city blur beneath the golden light.

and then the memory comes, strange and vivid and too warm for the moment:

“they asked me at schoo’ why i have t-two daddies…”

he ruffles the little girl’s hair gently, kissing the corner of her eye — the same place you always liked to kissed him. “did they make fun of you for having two daddies and no mummy?”

she nods, quick and distressed, and satoru laughs softly, lifting her into his arms.

“when two people fall in love, anything’s possible.”

“satoru…?”

your voice cuts the vision in half.

you return to the room to find the bed empty.

the packaged sandwich you bought slips from your hand and hits the floor making a smack noise.

slowly, dread dragging at your limbs, you move toward the bed, a little hunched in on yourself. there are streaks of blood on the sheets, droplets on the tiles where he must’ve ripped out his IV. your chest sinks and rage overtakes it in an instant. you rip the blankets off the bed, teeth bared.

“FUCK!”

mr fushiguro barrels into the room at the sound, and you whirl on him, slam him back against the wall with a hand to his chest.

“where the FUCK is he?! you’re supposed to be watching him! that’s what i fucking pay you for!”

“s-sir— i was instructed to leave the roo—”

“i don’t give a fuck if you were told to leave. you take orders from me, not from anyone else, you useless fuck!”

you shove him away and turn back to the bed, breathing sharp, vision tight around the edges.

that’s when you see it — a scattered stack of papers.

the medical report.

you snatch it up, eyes scanning fast — too fast at first, then slowing as the words snag, sink in, pull the ground out from under you.

the weight of it hits all at once.

and for the first time since you walked into the hospital, you go completely silent.

your chest tightens, heavy with something that tastes too close to grief. it spreads through you like a slow unfurling, thick and uninvited. your eyes skim the report again, lips parted, heart straining against your chest.

positive reading for pregnancy test. gravida: no. 1. estimated gestational age: 5 weeks. hCG levels elevated. hCG: positive = 1500 mIU/mL. consistent with early pregnancy.

he was pregnant.

he was hiding it from you.

the reality turns over and over in your mind, spinning like a blade with no edge dull enough to spare you. you dig for another explanation, any explanation, but there isn’t one. only the simplest, ugliest truth:

he lied to you.

and why?

what reason could he possibly have had? how did he manage to slip under your watch? you always knew where he went, who he spoke to. you kept tabs, checked in, traced his every little whim. so how?

you don’t even notice how glassy your eyes have gone, and how your breath shallows, either, until mr fushiguro glances at you sideways, his voice pitched carefully low.

“mr l/n…?”

you don’t look at him. your voice comes flat.

“contact my sister-in-law.”

your stare remains locked on the page. you can’t blink. can’t stop reading the same sentence again and again like it’ll change on the next pass.

he thought he could run. that he could leave. but satoru couldn’t escape you. no one did. no one could. no one has ever done that.

you’d given him everything. a life soaked in opulence, luxury, softness. no one like him should’ve made it this far — and yet, you let him. you chose him. you could have picked anyone, but you were drawn to him. his flair. his voice. the way he carried himself like he knew the room already belonged to him. he had an energy that pulled people in, and you mistook it for usefulness — a good fit. a strong image.

that’s all it was supposed to be. not love. not this.

and yet, here you are. realising, possibly for the first time ever, that you might’ve been wrong. not just about your feelings, but about his nature, too.

the fury simmers beneath your skin, no longer boiling, just scalding. slow. quiet.

your family could never know.

your family, rooted in tradition, in generations of expectation, would never accept something like this.

a pregnant man? they didn’t even know what that meant…

a whore?

you could already hear it:

are you joking with us? what do you mean you got him pregnant?

so you wouldn’t tell them. you wouldn’t tell anyone.

you didn’t even understand it yourself.

what made you choose him out of every other potential candidate? he wasn’t pedigree. wasn’t status. wasn’t a quiet housewife type. wasn’t anything they’d approve of.

but you’d still chosen him.

the fact that satoru had a cunt instead of a cock was never a problem to you. you didn’t care how people identified or presented. attraction was attraction. if someone drew you in, you acted on it — if they returned that energy, the rest didn’t matter.

satoru was beautiful in his own way. unapologetically so. the way he expressed himself had nothing to do with why you wanted him.

but that didn’t change the fact that he was meant to stay in his place.

a plaything. a distraction. someone private. not someone you’d build a life with. not someone you’d claim in front of cameras or boardrooms or blood relatives.

someone like him didn’t belong in your world.

and you would never let yourself be humiliated trying to wedge him into it.

that’s all he ever was. a fantasy. a pleasant indulgence. disposable, in the end.

but even now, some part of you — some buried, stupid, soft part — knows that’s not the whole truth. you do love him, in some way. you hated to admit it.

and that’s what’s driving you mad.

he’s out there somewhere. pregnant with your child.

you know him well enough. he’d never make it as a parent. he’s a tightass, a brat. if you told him you weren’t going to raise the child, he’d fold. he’d go through with the abortion just to keep your approval.

you’re sure of it.

you have to be.

why would he want to keep a child with you, anyway?

surely he understood the arrangement — the benefits, the roles, the limits. you both gained something from it, but in truth, satoru gained more. your entertainment wasn’t worth half as much as his financial stability, and his ease, and his comfort.

you rise from the bed, crushing the report in your fist, knuckles whitening. you stride past your bodyguard without looking at him.

“take me home. i need to make some calls.”

he bows, head dipped until you turn the corner. only then does mr fushiguro exhale, muttering under his breath:

“couldn’t handle a filthy mutt like yourself, anyway.”

in the blink of an eye — or perhaps just the blur of a mind too exhausted to register time — you’re home. the door’s unlocked. the panel light blinks green.

broken in?

or someone who already knew the code?

weird, you think, pausing on the threshold. “has my sister-in-law been contacted?”

mr fushiguro bows again. “yes, sir. but she has not responded.”

you sigh, stepping inside the dim apartment. shadows cling to the corners of everything.

“go home. you’re not needed tonight.”

he bows once more and waits until you’re out of sight before leaving. the sound of his car pulling away loosens a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.

you’re tired. mentally exhausted. emotionally threadbare.

you have no idea what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself tangled in. all of it feels like some massive, spiralling disaster you can’t claw out of.

and then you hear it.

the faintest sound. soft. echoing. weeping.

coming from the en suite.

your skin prickles; your mind reels between fear and disbelief. you could be hallucinating, stress does that, so you slip into the kitchen and grab a knife.

step by step, you move toward the bathroom.

inside, the light flickers once and you freeze.

he’s covered in blood.

why is he covered in blood? why does he look so lifeless? why is there a smile on his lips? where are his eyes?

why—

why does he look happy to see you?

your skull throbs suddenly, sharp pain blooming behind your eyes. you clamp a hand to your head, stumbling. the room tilts. the tiles rush up to meet you. a child’s voice wraps itself around your mind in a messy shrill.

“hah— am i going fucking insane? satoru. satoru, you fucking— ugh!”

darkness swallows you whole and you pass out.

time passes. hours pass.

the blare of your phone drags you awake. you’re in your bed. everything’s where you left it: the book on the nightstand, your spectacles resting squarely on top.

a nightmare. it must’ve been a nightmare. a horrible, grotesque nightmare.

you call out for satoru.

no response.

your chest sinks. the silence stretches in thick and telling volumes. he isn’t here. he never came back. everything from yesterday wasn’t a dream.

everything from yesterday is your reality now.

your phone continues to ring and you answer it immediately.

when you answer, her voice crackles back at you — that clipped, irritated, and familiar tone.

“what’s wrong with you, disturbing me at this hour? and during business, no less?”

you almost smile. just barely. it’s your sister-in-law.

she must’ve received the message you had your bodyguard send. she was the only one you trusted with this. the only person who knew, even vaguely, the trouble you’d gone through with satoru. it made more sense to contact her than to involve the rest of your family.

a pause hangs heavy between you. then a deep sigh on her end, long and exhausted.

“we found him.”

you shoot upright in bed, pushing the covers off slowly, tension thick across your chest.

“where is he?” your voice sparks, sharp and ready.

another silence.

“well? where the fuck is h—”

“your old brothel house,” she says flatly. “just… come. i don’t want to be mixed up in this mess anymore.”

my old brothel house? why the fuck there?

“i’ll be there.”

“be quick. he’s… not in the best condition.”

you don’t waste time calling mr fushiguro. you don’t waste time, period. you throw on your clothes in silence, too many questions clawing for attention in your head — but one rises above the rest, the simplest, the rawest: is he going to be okay? 

not a why, just a… will he be fine?

when you arrive, she’s the first to greet you — standing just outside the entrance with mr fushiguro stationed beside her, shoulders stiff. you meet his gaze briefly, a long, slow look, and he lowers his eyes immediately. his throat bobs, hands folded behind his back. your tight-lipped expression, paired with your dishevelled appearance, is enough to shut him up completely.

he knows — once you step inside, things could go very south.

“you look like shit,” she mutters, deadpan.

you cut her a glare, “so do you.”

“fuck you.”

her mouth curls, amused, and she claps you once on the shoulder as she passes. before she leaves, she leans in, voice low against your ear.

“you better fix this before your daddy finds out.”

and then she’s gone — her silhouette swallowed by the night (or early morning, you weren’t sure which one), leaving only the heaviness in your chest behind.

“leave us.”

your command is levelled at the man behind you. no need to look.

“but sir—”

“i said fucking leave.”

your tone drops like a blade. he bows, stiff, and walks off towards the car, boots scuffing the pavement.

you exhale, dragging a hand down your face, then face the beaded curtain. it sways gently in the breeze, like it’s waiting for you. the air smells like dust and old perfume.

you’re not ready. not for this. not for him. not for anything that follows.

there’s no script for something like this. no business language to dress it up. nothing to calculate anymore. you walk forward anyway, blinking past the residual fuzz behind your eyes, letting the artificial light spill over your vision as you adjust.

and then you see him.

satoru.

curled in the haze of the room, framed by faded wallpaper and the lingering scent of tobacco and sweat. the kind of scent that never really leaves places like this. the brothel hasn’t been used in years — it sits in your portfolio like dead property — and yet here he is. the only person here.

thin and pale, the ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.

it was as if the smell alone unearthed memories neither of you had touched in years.

“you found me.”

his voice is thick and heavy, each word dragging like his tongue has turned into something weightier than flesh. you don’t answer and simply stare instead, anger swirling with a strange, bitterness. when your gaze drops to his wrists, the dried blood makes your jaw tic. not dripping anymore, but enough to show how far gone he is.

he looks worse than you. by miles.

you approach him slowly. the room barely breathes.

you graze the back of your knuckles along his cheekbone and satoru twitches, jerking a fraction away like your touch burns. he turns his face from you, which only prompts your hand to snap forward and seize his jaw, forcing him back. his pupils are blown wide under the hazy lights, dark and glossy, unfocused.

“you want to die?” your voice is a low, coiled hiss. “after everything i’ve done for you?”

your grip tightens. he cries out, small and hoarse.

“this is all my fault.”

and yet, he smiles — that awful, empty smile — his eyes gone glassy, devoid of anything resembling fear or hope. his fingers come up, trembling, touching at your wrist. trying to soothe you. trying to soothe himself.

“it’s unfair.”

you scoff in a sharp and disbelieving way, and shove him back, releasing his face with a rough flick of your hand.

“you’re going to get rid of that baby.”

“no.”

your eyes snap to him. “…what?”

“i… don’t want to—”

the words hit you like a slap — confusion first, then something colder, hollower. realisation settling slow.

he’s slumped deep in the bean bag, body sinking. his head droops, bobbing like he’s trying to stay awake through thick, chemical fog. an off‑shoulder cropped top hangs precariously on him, exposing his neck and collarbone. boyshorts cling low on his hips. he looks fragile. drugged. vulnerable.

satoru was completely wrecked.

you don’t know what to do with him anymore.

he says he wants to keep the baby — you, very clearly, do not. every outcome rolls through your mind, and every possible solution ends in a deadlock that does nothing for you. nothing that preserves the neat, controlled life you’ve built. nothing that benefits you at all.

you look at satoru. really look, hard.

you’re no longer sure you’re even thinking. it feels more like drowning. you hate that you care. you never meant to. and he wasn’t wrong — you caused this mess just as much as he did. he had every reason to hide it from you, and he knew exactly how you’d react.

but now?

what you do next even he doesn’t expect — even through the haze of drugs, he manages to track you, the faint flicker of awareness cutting through the blur.

“you want to keep it?”

this time, you ask it plainly. firmly. but there’s something softer beneath it — gentleness used only as scaffolding to keep yourself steady. you need to hear him say it with clarity. you need him to prove he actually means it.

why the fuck are you even considering this?

you have the money to bury this problem. hide it. hide him. tuck it all away forever in some airtight box no one will ever open. on paper, the solution is simple. in practice?

maybe not.

your head feels thick, muffled, as if someone’s packed cotton behind your eyes. you have no idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do.

you glance at satoru’s wrists again. new blood wells up from the torn skin.

when you hurt him, he always did something stupid — that wasn’t new. but never like this. never to the point of wanting to die. never to the point of bleeding out alone in some forgotten room like this was the best choice he had left. you didn’t want him to die, and you didn’t want him to die alone.

did you really treat him so badly that he thought this was his only escape?

something unfamiliar stirs deep in your chest. ugly and warm and fucking frightening.

you’ve never been the understanding type. not with him. not with anyone, actually. that’s just who you were. but maybe, for once, you’re being forced to look at the situation without your usual armour.

when you ask him the question, satoru manages a fragile smile. he brings a shaky hand to his stomach, fingertips brushing lightly across his womb.

“y-yeah… i’ve always wanted to. a-and i’m sorry for everyth—”

“no. stop it. don’t fucking piss me off more than i already am.”

he swallows, then laughs, a cracked, breathless sound, followed by a cough that sprays thin threads of blood across his palm.

“yeah… of course you wouldn’t want to keep the baby,” he murmurs, voice wobbling at the edges. “especially with a cheap whore like me, huh?”

he laughs again. it’s awful. brittle. and your stomach twists sharply. there’s a pressure behind your eyes building hotly, stinging, and you turn your head away before anything can escape.

he notices anyway. of course he does. he glances up, hearing the faint noise you make — you’re not even sure what it was. a swallow. a held breath. something breaking inside of you.

“you think too terribly of me,” you say, voice low.

“it’s easy to think terribly of you.”

“give me a chance.”

“give me a chance.”

he emphasises the me like it means something more than just the words.

have you been giving him that? a chance? a real one? a reason to believe you’d ever choose him?

you’re not sure anymore. your head still throbs. time is slipping through your fingers like water. you need to make a decision. now.

and then he says it.

“i love you, y/n.”

your gaze darts to him, sharp and startled.

“w-what?” your voice breaks. “satoru? what? what did you just say?” you shake him, a little too hard. “say it again. hello?”

he goes quiet. limp.

you press your ear to his chest. yes — there. faint, but still present. a heartbeat.

“why did you run away?” your voice cracks, forehead pressing to his. “you fucking idiot…”

you don’t wait. you lift him, arms hooked beneath knees and shoulders, bridle style — carrying him out of that place like it’s on fire.

his consciousness flickers, on and off, eyes half-lidded, lips trembling and cracked.

when he glances up at you, his brows knit in pain, a fearful pout forming as he stares helplessly. he can’t quite hear you. everything blurs into a haze.

your voice. the wind. the shouting of strangers all around you. then, red and blue lights begin to bleed into his periphery.

“sir, we’re going to need you to step away— sir— please—”

you’re resisting them at first, trying to keep him close, pulling back from the paramedics who reach for him.

and then something shifts. you let go. willingly, because you had to step away. it’s okay to let others take control. its okay.

you place him in their care, stammering with unadulterated fear.

“please don’t let him die,” you whisper. “this is my fault.”

the female paramedic offers a small, soft smile — warmth in contrast to the storm clawing inside your chest. and somehow? it steadies you. and you follow — climbing into the back of the ambulance.

time passes again.

the hospital. the same hospital. the same sterile room, with that same antiseptic smell.

satoru stirs.

you’re slouched in a chair beside his bed, head laid against his arm, hair a mess. your fingers loop with his, warm and possessive. you’re not quite awake — breathing slow, heavy with exhaustion — but still present.

there’s something in your breathing that makes him ache. not just fatigue, but something deeper. maybe it was because you were the first thing he saw when he woke up.

it brings tears to his eyes. they well, shimmer, and finally spill free.

his soft sniffles wake you, but you don’t startle. the room is still dark. just the distant hum of the city outside and the beeping of vehicles.

you turn your head slightly, still pressed to his arm. there’s that same unreadable expression on your face. the one he never gets quite right. and then, quietly — like it’s only meant for him —

you smile.

he doesn’t know what to do with himself. he just stares at you, at the softness of your expression, the faint curve of your mouth. he’s never seen you smile like that. not happy, exactly… more relieved. something unguarded, even. a type of vulnerability that looks good on you.

a single tear slips down his cheek.

you wipe it away, sitting up, though your hand stays tangled with his — almost like if you let go, he’d leave you again.

“just rest.”

“b-but why…?”

you meet him at eye-level, your gaze reflecting that ocean-blue shimmer in his own. gently, you sweep a few strands of ivory hair behind his ear, clearing his forehead, thumb brushing the corner of his eye in soft, deliberate strokes.

“i… don’t know.”

your smile shifts — melts into something sad and watery. satoru’s tears spill again, silently, his chest hitching as he simply looks at you.

“fuck… i don’t know anymore.”

you’re flustered, visibly so. intimacy has never sat well with you — you’ve never known how to do this, how to be this — how to be perfect for anyone. not even yourself. but you want him to understand that you’re not angry at him anymore. that the way he broke down doesn’t repulse you. that you forgive him.

you’ll never forgive yourself, though. and maybe — maybe this should wait for another time. or maybe there shouldn’t be another time. maybe you should simply let satoru go.

your hand lifts again, tracing his cheek, then the line of his jaw, then the edge of his ear — the touch makes him shiver. he tries to sit up, wincing, and you let him, watching every small movement like it’s fragile and precious.

he reaches for your face, both hands cupping your cheeks, and pulls you into a soft, trembling kiss.

for a moment, everything in you goes quiet. all the anger, all the spiralling thoughts, all the sharpness — gone. dissipated like they were never there. there’s only him. satoru. the press of his lips, the warmth behind them, the love woven through the way he kisses you.

your tongue clicks against the back of your teeth — annoyed, almost, at yourself for letting him make you vulnerable. but then you see his eyes flutter shut mid-kiss, and something in your chest aches. aches in ways you didn’t know you could ache for him.

you place your hands over his, holding them in place as you lean deeper into the kiss, pressing his lips flat beneath yours before shifting, sliding half your body onto the bed beside him.

your tongue slips into his mouth and he lets you toy with his for a moment, a soft sigh escaping him. one of his hands wanders down your chest, tracing the disarray of your clothes — your blouse still the same one you wore the night you found him, top buttons undone, collar crooked, hair a little greasy, unwashed.

to him, you look like someone who hasn’t slept, hasn’t breathed, hasn’t stopped worrying since the moment he disappeared. but he prefers this version of you because it’s real.

and he kisses you again because of that. because he can feel it in the way your hands shake.

but you were real.

that’s what satoru could feel — the weight of you, the warmth, and the unmistakable ache of something real. he could feel the love radiating off you in quiet waves, consuming him, not in hunger or desperation, but in a gentle kind of need. a want that wasn’t about sex, but about you. about the way you kissed him like he meant something.

and even though you hadn’t said a word, he understood. the kiss said it all.

when you finally pull away, breath grazing his lips, both his hands slide down your waist, settling firm and familiar at your hips. he tries to tug you closer, but he’s too weak to manage it properly, and your weight anchors him. still, the intent is there.

and that’s what gives you pause.

you realise then — this changes everything. you don’t know how, not yet. but it does. and you’re not afraid of what it means anymore. you’re only afraid of losing him now.

you never want to lose satoru.

“you’re hard, mister.”

even now, even here, he still has the audacity to tease. satoru gojo — the only man alive capable of crumbling your empire with a single look.

you don’t say anything, though, embarrassment pulling at your brow. really? now? how could you even be hard in a moment like this?

pull yourself together, you scold internally.

but the truth is… there’s nothing to pull together. nothing you want to hide from him anymore — not even this. not even the way your body reacts to him instinctively, like it always has.

getting hard over something like intimacy? you never thought that was possible, but he just does things to you that makes you learn more and more about your own body.

“looks like someone needs a hand with that.”

“you need to rest,” you murmur firmly, but laced with the hint of a laugh.

“i feel fineeeee,” he drawls lazily, playfully.

“hmm…”

he pinches your side, and your body twitches from the contact.

“okay, ’toru… enough. just rest. i can handle this myself.”

“do it in front of me. i wanna see you stroke yourself to me,” he huffs, voice light and hoarse.

this little brat.

you sigh, glancing around the dim room. it’s dark enough. he can barely see. you can barely see. not that you’re ashamed — it’s not embarrassment that holds you back.

it’s caution.

it’s care.

you don’t want anyone walking in.

not now.

not when he’s finally back in your hands.

letting go of satoru, you feel his hands still clinging to you in weak protests, and he’s the one who fumbles with your belt this time. you climb fully onto the bed, thighs bracketing his, towering over him as your cock springs free from your underwear.

the cool hospital air hits you instantly — a sharp sting that shoots straight through you — made worse by the way satoru stares. his gaze alone is enough to heat your cheeks, but you ignore it. your fingers wrap around the base of your cock and you sweep it a bit in a back and forward motion.

you start slow and deliberate, eyes slipping shut as your breath fogs out in soft pants, whispers breaking between them. satoru lies back, adjusting the bed with the remote so he can see you better. and he does see — so intensely it almost startles himself.

he watches the way your lips part, the way the corner of your mouth twitches, the way you drag your tongue over your teeth — not in annoyance this time, but something far… needier. the sight sends a wave of warmth rushing through him.

the cardiograph begins to beep faster.

you glance over, chuckling.

“enjoying the view?” you ask with a sharp inhale, circling the crown of your cock before dragging your thumb down the thick vein along the underside.

the vein dips beneath the pressure, then pops back up once you release it — pronounced and pulsing with your heartbeat. precum beads at your tip and you let out a low groan, quiet enough not to bleed through the door. “a little too much, i think.”

you tilt your head toward the monitor, and satoru sinks into the mattress, cheeks flushed. he doesn’t speak, just pouts, eyes glued to your hand as you stroke yourself slowly, holding his gaze the whole time.

“just watch,” you reassure. “yeah, like that. does this turn you on?”

he nods instantly, reaching out with a shaking hand, but before he can retreat, you catch it. you move closer, hovering over his chest, guiding both his hands around your girth and covering them with your own.

he feels the heat of you and the pulse beneath.

“so,” you say, voice soft but cutting straight through him, “what are we going to name the baby?”

the question slams into him; he tenses, breath catching.

“relax, satoru.”

you chuckle, straightening a little, pushing your messy hair back from your forehead with one hand as the other keeps his hands exactly where you want them.

“he’ll take your last name.”

he looks up at you, pout forming again, a hint of play behind it.

“how d’you know it’s gonna be a boy? what if it’s a girl? also isn’t the wife meant to take the husbands name?”

you hum, thoughtfully, guiding his hand back up to your tip, holding it there. you let out a low moan, thick with something more than just pleasure. “most of the time… but also… if it’s a girl… how does satori sound?”

“boring.”

you laugh a low sound in your chest, and the shiver that crawls up your spine has nothing to do with the cold.

he hates it — how you’re talking about baby names while he’s still stroking your cock, how calm and unhurried you sound while panting softly against him. it’s all too much, and yet… not enough. his cunt clenches involuntarily and utterly shameless at the display right in front of him.

“close…” you whisper into the shell of his ear, voice dipped low. “t-that’s not even a real name…” he squirms, trying to stay level. but then his eyes catch the thick vein running along your shaft, twitching with pressure. the next second is inevitable.

you fall forward — catching the headboard with one arm, bracing yourself as your cock pulses and spills hot, thick cum over both your hands and his. it drips, slow and sticky, onto his wrist, his palm, over your flushed tip. you shake with the release, huffing against the shell of his ear as you ride out the last wave of pleasure.

“satoru…” you manage to groan his name right there against the skin.

he just lies there, staring up and blinking slowly, the rise and fall of your chest mirroring his own as he watches you come undone in front of him.

he swallows hard, waiting.

you’re the first to move. you slip off the bed, limbs heavy, and head into the adjoining ensuite. there’s a moment of silence before you return, left with his own wild thoughts, towel in hand, still damp with warm water. you clean yourself first then reach for his hand, gently wiping the mess from his fingers.

he says nothing, just watches the way your jaw tenses.

then, you turn the towel over to the clean side and cup his chin. carefully you wipe the tear stains from his cheeks. that vision — the one you saw in your nightmare — flashes through your mind again, and for a second you can’t meet his eyes.

but you still speak.

“i don’t know what i’m doing. i don’t know if i want this. i don’t know what’ll happen, or where it’ll lead us.” your voice cracks, quiet but raw. you lift his face, switch the towel to your spare hand, and brush gently at the corner of his mouth.

his eyes go wide but don’t leave yours.

“but i do know one thing now… i want you, satoru. whatever it takes.”

he whispers it back to you, soft as mist, almost scared to hope. “whatever… it takes?”

his arms come around your waist and he pulls you into a hug. his ear presses against your chest, right where your heartbeat hammers loudest.

“whatever it takes,” you repeat.

you don’t know what it means yet. not fully. but it’s everything. the fear, the guilt, the chance to try again. it’s love, in the form you’ve never known. it’s falling and choosing to stay fallen. it’s him — and he was never just your plaything. you know that now.

and maybe this time, that’s enough.

because now?

now, you finally have a reason to live and so does he.

CASEDEVIANT ██ 2025 𖦏 do not translate, plagiarise, redistribute or ai train my writing ﹙ all works belong to me ﹚ visuals are from the yaoi 'flip the script'

Gojo Satoru has many qualities: he is the world's best teacher, the strongest sorcerer of the modern era, a pretty great cook, and is devastatingly handsome.

He is also no better than anyone else.

Despite his rebellious manner, Satoru still did what was expected of him. Rome wasn't built in a day, he reminds himself, but it's difficult to retain that mindset; regardless of his efforts, executions were only delayed, never revoked, and the yawning gape of loss grew ever darker.

He could rationalise all he liked, say 'I do this for them, not for you' all he liked, but there was no denying the fact that it was still done. Working to change the system from the inside had the unfortunate requirement of being part of the shitty system first.

Sometimes, in passing thought during fitful sleeps or groggy mornings, the only thing he wants is to do something for himself. Something selfish, irresponsible, and perhaps morally reprehensible. If only he could be wanted, not just needed.

An alarm goes off on school grounds. The presence of unregistered cursed energy has Satoru teleporting to its source in a flash. Maybe it's just Megumi summoning his shikigami in an argument with Nobara, or Toge pushing his technique further than strictly allowed, but instead, it's—

"You," he accuses, brows furrowing behind his blindfold. "Step away from the kid."

You glance up and lean back, seated on a stone garden bench beside Yuji, who's stiff as a board. The split of the mouth below his eye is twisted into a snarl, hissing expletives in your direction.

You smile sweetly, eyes crinkling, and wave. "Gojo-san! Good morning."

"Don't make me ask twice."

You hum, raising your hands in surrender, and scoot to the other end of the bench. "I'm not here to cause harm, Gojo-san. In fact, I was looking for you."

Satoru jerks his head in Yuji's direction, the sharp-toothed mouth growing more and more annoyed as you ignore him in favour of the white-haired witch. "Don't suppose that has anything to do with you, does it?"

You rise to your feet and step closer, dusting off your white sleeves. Satoru's hands twitch in warning, and you move slowly, more deliberately, with a placating smile on your face.

"I've caught up on current events. I was made aware that Sukuna's vessel was your student, and thought it'd be easiest to find the child with two souls to learn of your whereabouts – but it appears you've done all the hard work for me." You gesture at him, standing in front of you. "I have matters I'd like to discuss with you. May we speak privately?"

"Nope. We'll chat here." He steps towards Yuji, edging closer. "You're a high-priority case that had me chasing leads all over the city, you know? The higher-ups told me to kill you if you showed up again."

Yuji's eyes widen. "Kill him? Why? Is he a criminal?"

"Not quite," you confess as you turn to him, almost paternal in your gentleness. "I am a cursed spirit. Yes, Yuji – just like those you exorcise."

His eyes widen further and a dawning horror flickers across his features. He steps back. "No. You're lying. Gojo-sensei wouldn't let a curse like you live."

"It's impolite to kill someone when they've done nothing to slight you. Your teacher has manners," you say, amused. "My technique has many applications, some of which benefit sorcerers – hence my survival. Let me show you a trick. This..." You splay your hand, palm down, and a thousand slender gold strings shimmer translucently in the morning light, extending from you like a spider's web. "Is how I found you."

You touch a seemingly normal string, but as you come into contact with it, another shimmers, revealed out of hiding. Now the string is composed of two pulsing threads twisted together – or, rather, one is coiled around the other: rough, uneven, gnarled, like orchid roots to an oak. You lead it towards him, extending its visible length, and it ends at his solar plexus, vanishing a few centimetres away. You tap his chest almost affectionately, and you glow with pride under Yuji's unintentionally-awed gaze.

Satoru admits – it's flashy. But you've already got an ego, and he's not about to make it bigger by telling you so.

Carefully, you choose a thread and pluck it gently, lifting it across the bend of your index finger. "This one is yours, Gojo-san," you say. Your eyes glitter. "Looks just like the others, doesn't it?"

You're still mortal, you don't say, but he hears it anyway.

"Alright, enough with the show-and-tell," Satoru says, pushing your hands down with his own. Your technique disperses. He grasps Yuji's shoulder and pushes him behind him, his touch lingering for reassurance. "If I don't deal with you quickly, I'll have Yaga and the rest hounding my ass for your ass, so if you could so kindly vacate the premises and never return, I'd be much obliged."

"Never?"

"Never ever."

"That's a long time."

"It's sorta the point."

"Why?" You tilt your head, voice lilting innocently. "I've had a lot of time to think. What if I wanted to be good, this time around?"

Satoru laughs and pushes his hands into his pockets, gaze trained on the new hair accessory you're wearing. The gold of it glitters with the sway of your head, the same colour as the souls you weave. "You're a curse. You're never good."

"Good by curse standards, then," you relent. "If sorcerers can use their skills for evil, selfish goals, can't I do the opposite? I'm looking for a change of scenery."

Satoru chuckles. "It's in your nature as a curse. And you were a politician, so I double-can't trust you."

"Oh, but it would be just awful working with these modern curse users." You rub your forehead. "They have no manners, no order – not even a set waking time each day! It's ridiculous, Gojo-san, you should have seen it. I couldn't bear to stay. I don't want to waste my efforts corralling street dogs into line."

"Ah, I forgot how neurotic you are about procedural correctness. If you were a sorcerer, at least we'd get things done," he says airily, flicking a hand in the air. "Honestly, I'd love to bring you to the elders just to see their brains explode."

"I could do that for you, if you wish. Nothing would trace back to you – I'll bear the blame." Your eyes glitter as you step forward, your fingers brushing his arm. Infinity glimmers in the light. "Would you bring me to meet your family? I wonder if they'd disapprove."

"Oh, for sure. You'd be the bad-boy boyfriend I've always wanted. 'But I love him, mother!' kind of thing, you know?" He watches as you trail your fingers down his jacket buttons; your palm lingers half an inch over his chest. His Infinity is hard yet bouncy and almost cool to the touch, like magnets the wrong way around. He traces the markings around your eyes with his Six Eyes. They're foxlike, in a way, sharpening your gaze and edging it with a natural mischievous cleverness.

"Really? How sweet." You flick your fingers and twist the threads of his soul around your knuckles, and tug him towards you. He doesn't flinch away, staring up at you from behind his blindfold. Your grin widens, sharp and enthralled, and your slitted black pupils blow wide. "You're... not afraid of me?"

"Nah. You wouldn't fight me. You totally like me." He shrugs with a smirk, hooking a slender finger beneath his blindfold. "What is it that has you looking at me like that? Must be the unique hair, right? Did you crush on my ancestors, too?"

You chuckle, stroking his soul with the pad of your thumb. He shivers – just barely. His cheeks flush lightly, easily visible on his milky skin. "I was under the impression that most humans would be upset if I admitted to a past relationship with a forefather. Are you just odd?"

"There's a difference between you romancing my dad and romancing a distant relative from a thousand years ago. You're magical, sexy, ancient-vampire age, not weird-uncle age, you understand?"

With mirth dancing in your eyes, you drop his soul and outline his pale cheek, admiring his fine features. He looks almost dainty when you place your fingers beneath his chin.

"You're strange, Gojo-san," you murmur, dipping in until your lips ghost his ear. His breath hitches: the first crack in his composure. "Your hair is lovely, but I'm much more curious about what you have under here." You tap his blindfolded temple twice, slow and teasing, like you're petting him.

"Never seen a Six Eyes user?" he huffs. You've moved on to other parts of him, circling him like a vulture and tracing the shell of his ear. "That's hard to believe."

"You are taller than those I knew," you muse, your gaze smoky, "and more slender. I daresay you might even be pretty – like a noble's daughter. You share their grace. But they say eyes are the windows to the soul, so being unable to see yours... It dims your beauty, like a moonless night veiling the soft swirl of snowfall."

"Huh," he murmurs. He jerks away then, as if abruptly realising that your noses are almost touching. He laughs, loud and bright. "Yeah, I see why you were popular with the ladies! That was cute. I liked that."

"I'm a romantic." You chuckle, leaning back. "Would you consider my offer, Gojo-san?"

"To join the side of sorcerers, be a turncoat?" His smile is wide, entertained. "I'll think about it. You're fun."

"Does this mean you won't kill me today?"

"Sure, if you leave right now. They're probably wondering why I haven't taken care of you yet."

You hum, stepping past him. You pause, shoulder brushing his – light, lingering, playing against his technique. "Will you take care of me some other time, then?"

He tilts his face towards yours, lips curved up with amusement. He repeats, "I'll think about it."

"I see you have a lot of thoughts to think. Oh, but before I go..." You reach into your sleeve and reveal an old yellowed scroll, the wooden centre dark and slightly shattered as if dropped from a height. You turn it over, tracing a familiar seal carved into one end, and hold it out.

"I believe this belongs to your family," you murmur. "Without my essence protecting it, it's begun to deteriorate. It'd be a shame to let such beautiful art go to waste."

He inspects it, intrigued, and reaches out. "Is this what you wanted to discuss earlier?"

"Partly, yes. But," you pull the scroll back, smiling playfully, "if I return this, you have to promise you won't put me back inside. Not yet, at least. I want to experience all the new kinds of tea humans have come up with. I just adore sweetened tea – the fruity ones are such a novelty."

"A man after my own heart, I see," Satoru hums. "Fine, I agree."

Your pupils dilate again as you step forward and hand it over with a chipper smile. He might find it cute if it weren't paired with the dictator personality.

"Very well – I'll leave you to it. Farewell, Gojo-san." Your smile broadens and you lift a hand out of your robes to wave goodbye over your shoulder. Your golden hair ornament shines in the sunlight, sparkling in the faint morning fog with a dewy lustre, and the thin dangling chains flutter as you retreat into the distance past the school gates.

Satoru's heart skips a beat. He gulps, pushing his blindfold lower over his eyes, and turns the painted scroll over in his clammy hands.

"Him?"

The voice is deep, disgusted, and appalled. Satoru turns back around just in time to see Yuji slap a hand over the mouth on his cheek, only for it to reappear on the back of his hand.

Honestly, he'd forgotten they were still there.

"Of course someone like you would go for a damn bureaucrat," Sukuna drawls, mouth curled into a sneer. "He's also far too old for you."

"Ugh, don't be such a Debbie Downer," Satoru huffs, placing his hand on his hip. "And stay out of my personal business, old man. What are you, my dad?"

"I'll kill you for that insult," he mutters darkly.

"Yeah, yeah, get in line." Satoru slings an arm around Yuji's shoulders, dragging him away from the edge of campus. "Let's stick closer to other people, Yuji! I know the gardens over here are super nice, but I don't want any more crazy curses distracting you, okay? You've got homework to focus on. Speaking of – have you started your science report? It's due on Thursday."

Yuji groans, planting his face in his hands. "Sensei, don't remind me!"

—

At the end of a tiring workday, Satoru slumps onto his couch in his apartment, limp as a noodle, with his head rolling over the back of the sofa. His eyes are closed behind his blindfold as he exhales a lungful of air.

The backrest cushion on both sides of his head dip with weight – two hands. A hot breath fans his cheek, and fingers flutter lightly against his Infinity.

He doesn't open his eyes. "You aren't allowed in here, mister."

"I excel at being where I shouldn't." You test his Infinity further down, moving as if to cup his tilted throat. "Long day, little dove?"

He makes a noise of assent in the back of his throat. "Yeppers. Same as always."

Your weight and presence moves away, and he hears your soft footsteps leading into his kitchen. His open-plan apartment means you don't have to raise your voice to continue speaking with him.

"You know that I could ease some of that burden. Have you considered my offer?"

"I already gave you an answer, YN." He mimes slapping a big button, complete with buzzer noises. "It's a no from me. Unfortunate, right?"

"It can't be from you if you think it's unfortunate, Gojo-san." Your voice is closer again, and Satoru opens his eyes to a tropical smoothie in a tall cup. You offer a straw in your other hand, torn open at one end, and Satoru accepts them both, sliding the straw from its protective sleeve. He jabs it into the top and takes a long, noisy slurp. He leans back with a satisfied hum.

"Please – 'Gojo-san' was my father. Call me Satoru." He pauses. A large, stupid grin crosses his face. "I've always wanted to say that!"

"Rather intimate terms for being less than co-workers, don't you think?" you ask, crumpling the straw's paper sheath in your palm and tossing it into his recycling bin at the end of the kitchen counter. He doesn't want to think about where you're getting your money from.

"Hey, I'm allowed friends outside of work." He pouts, sulking into his yellow smoothie.

Humming, you turn back to him. "Is that what we are? Friends?"

"Whoa, whoa – don't sound so eager," he teases, swirling his cup. Half of it is gone already. "Technically, you and I are 'mortal enemies' or whatever."

"Technically," you echo, and remove your golden kanzashi to reset it. A small thoughtful smile graces your features as you lift your arms to fix your hair, your sleeves slipping down around your elbows, and Satoru finds himself staring for longer than he should.

Irrefutably, you are built like a fighter, not like the diplomat you have made yourself to be. It's almost inspiring. You were made to be a monster and yet you defied your makers and peers, choosing – instead – to serve.

Of course, the jury's still out on whether you did so out of altruism or to crush the world into your idea of a utopia, but that's a question for another day.

You wander towards him on the couch. He's thrown spread-eagle across the length of it, a pink heart-shaped cushion beneath his head, and you press your hand against his thigh to get him to make a space for you. You don't get through his Infinity, don't attempt to, but there is something adorable in the way he obliges regardless, folding his long legs up against his chest. He tucks a hand under his head, and the other places his smoothie on the wooden coffee table.

"What do you think of us, Gojo-san?" you ask inquisitively, picking up his current book on the coffee table and leafing through it casually. Science fiction – with gravity wells, lasers, and galactic space fleets. "Do you... value my presence?"

He lifts his head abruptly, a finger hooking into his blindfold as if he's about to pull it down. "What? Actually, no, don't answer that. Answer this one. Are you asking me if I like you?"

"Perhaps. Do you?"

The question lingers in the air.

"Perhaps," he parrots eventually with the beginnings of a smirk. "Are you sure you haven't messed with my soul to make me crush on you? You curses probably like to lie."

"You would notice if I altered your soul," you hum, flipping to the front of the book and beginning from the first chapter. "Most don't realise because they don't know what I can do. I was responsible for a number of religious revelations in politically-ambitious second and third sons, but who would point at me for it? It was their fathers who were accused of 'sending them away'." You turn the page. "You know your own soul, no? You'd feel the change."

Satoru considers it, then shrugs. "Guess so." He rolls onto his side. This way, it's easier to keep you in his sight. "Did you buy dinner or just the drink?"

"Just the drink." You glance sideways at him, the hint of a smile playing at your lips. "Why? Would you like me to buy dinner for you?"

"I mean, it'd be nice, since you're basically couch-surfing and drinking all my tea while you're at it," he mumbles, kicking your side lightly to get your attention off the book. You oblige, placing your finger between the pages as a temporary bookmark. "I thought you were good at the whole ass-kissing thing."

"I am – but I imagined you'd be tired of it, given what I know of your upbringing. Would you like me to kiss your ass, then?" He knows you're only repeating his words, but his cheeks flush hot anyway. You say it too casually, too much part-of-the-sentence, and it feels like more of a statement than a turn of phrase.

He curls up a little more on the sofa and scoffs. "Please. As if you'd ever do that to me."

"You speak as if you know me," you reply, amused. "How can you be so sure?"

He lists off on his fingers. "Number one, I know what you are, so you don't have to pretend to be a simple run-of-the-mill aristocrat where it's expected behaviour. Secondly, you have literally nothing to gain from being a suck-up. Doesn't seem like a very efficient use of your precious time and effort to me."

You hum. "I wouldn't say an alliance is nothing."

He sits up, legs stretched out in front of him, and he tosses them over your lap. "But we don't have one. You and me – absolute foes. Total archnemeses."

You set down the book without marking your place, and Satoru wonders if you'd been reading it or simply acting like it. He doesn't have long to think about it before you're sliding closer to him, one arm resting over the sofa's backrest and effectively caging him in. You tilt your head and blink at him, slow and curious like a cat.

"You really think that, Gojo-san?" You voice is soft. "I thought I was your secret bad boyfriend."

"Bad-boy," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"Isn't that what I said?"

"No, the term is 'bad-boy boyfriend. Separate words." He taps his lips. "How can I explain this? A 'bad boy' is what you call someone rebellious, possibly dangerous, and who does what he wants when he wants, regardless of what's considered proper. You know what a boyfriend is?"

"Well, yes. A male partner to whom you are not yet engaged."

It's almost cute how concentrated you look. He claps. "Correct! So, altogether, it's a cool, rebellious guy you like who you wouldn't bring back to your parents. Or bring to meet the emperor, maybe. Does that make sense?"

You chuckle lightly, brushing your hair out of your eyes as you rest your temple against your hand. Your gaze doesn't leave him. "I can see why you became a tutor. You have a patience few possess. Now, if I am to be this... bad-boy boyfriend," you say carefully, brightening at his approving nod, "then I'd benefit from more lessons, yes? I want to be a reliable ally in these strange times. The more I understand, the better."

Satoru raises a brow behind his blindfold, a smirk tugging at his lips. "So, you want me to spend more time with you – which is against the rules, might I add. But how do I know you won't stab me in the back? Binding vow or something?"

You lift your hand to his face. It hovers just off his skin, his Infinity tingling against your palm. You trace the shape of his cheek, leading down his neck and shoulder. "I will be honest with you. First, I sought to lead. Jujutsu society has long been ruled by the weak and underserving, and if they will chase me to the ends of the earth even if I kill nothing and hurt no one, I have no choice but to turn around and fight. But then I met you – the Gojo child chained by the very people he tries to help. They fear power even when it is on their side. You intrigued me, so my goals have changed. What I want has changed."

"And what do you want?"

"I'll be frank." You place your hand on his chest. Infinity glimmers, warping the light. "You."

His breath catches in his throat.

You watch him closely, expression slightly smug, slightly coy. You wear it well. Your rich clothing and prideful, almost lazy gaze makes him feel like he's been approached by the emperor to become his concubine.

His heartbeat pulses hotly in the palms of his suddenly-clammy hands. Despite it, he grins widely and throws his head back to laugh, wicked and sharp. "So you do have a crush on me! Knew it."

"You are headstrong, powerful, and bright and beautiful as the dawn," you hum, smiling when he scoffs and rolls his whole head instead of just his eyes. A habit, perhaps, for expressing himself to his students. "I think we would be good together."

"Oh, really? What makes you think you're my type? Maybe I like guys who aren't crazy soul-bending egomaniacs."

"If you didn't at least find me amusing, I'd be dead right now. That you eat out of my hand like a kitten is another fact I cannot ignore."

He scoffs. "Please. If anyone's eating out of someone's hands, it'd be you. You're drawn to power like a moth to a lamp."

"True," you concede, inspecting your nails. "It has a certain charm to it."

"Is it charm?" Satoru mirrors your posture, arm resting on the back of the couch and body turned towards you. He snickers as he leans in. "Or is it the feeling of surrendering control to someone stronger?"

"You're not stronger than me," you correct immediately with casual dismissiveness, though you don't lean away. "Don't be absurd."

"You sure?" he asks playfully. He flexes an arm and kisses his knuckles. "We should totally arm wrestle to check."

You blink. "Did you kiss your fist?"

He corrects himself by kissing his bicep. Your face splits into a blinding grin and you can't hide your laughter at the absurdity of it all. Satoru watches with an adorably lopsided smile. Isn't it strange, the way your company makes him feel? The way he loses the air in his lungs and gets nervous about how his hair looks whenever you meet his eyes? The apartment feels warmer. He feels less alone.

"If only you were human," he murmurs as your laughter dies down. He glances away when you tilt your head, a questioning look in your eyes. "You, uh, would be a good asset to have on our side."

You shuffle closer until your thigh touches Infinity and you lean in, resting your temple against your hand. You chuckle. "It'd make me more trustworthy, wouldn't it? Alas and alack. I haven't even killed anyone since I was released. You would think that counts for something."

Satoru lifts his eyes. "Oh? What about that curse you were hunting? As far as I remember, you wanted to kill him."

"I was debating it," you correct. "Unfortunately, my head's been a mess since I woke up in your world. I made some... questionable decisions."

"Good or bad?"

"I can't say yet. But can I admit something, Gojo-san – Satoru?"

The way his name rolls off your tongue sends shivers down his spine. It's easy to imagine you in a royal court, slinking your way through politics with a flash of your silver tongue.

He shrugs. "You've already invaded my home. Go ahead."

You smile. "I promised I'd let him live if he became my... companion. Regarding cursed techniques, his echoes mine. You can imagine my excitement at such a revelation. I let him live, but after getting to know him? I think I much prefer your company."

"So you'd replace him with me? That's callous." He snickers. "Okay, so if I thought it sounded fun and agreed to it, what would even, like, happen? You can't teach me soul tricks. I doubt you need me to teach you how to throw a punch, either."

"I look for a different sort of companionship with you." Steadily, you hold his gaze beyond his blindfold. "One more... intimate."

He stares at you. You glance down at his lips, lingering there, before dragging your eyes back up and offering a coy smile. He goes slightly pink.

"Humanity is largely hedonistic, pleasure-seeking," you hum, leaning infinitesimally nearer. "Sex is the one thing that benefits."

His fingers twitch slightly. His heart rate is measured, but you can sense the concentration behind it.

He licks his lips. "Really?" he asks in a purposely airy tone. "And what experience do you have with that? You said you never slept with the women at court."

"No, I didn't."

You say nothing else – simply stare, expectant.

This time, his cheeks explode with heat he can't control. He flutters a hand over his face, a fruitless attempt to hide his red cheeks and pout. "Stop talking. Right now."

"I didn't say anything." Smoothly, you glide forward, one hand against the backrest and the other by his hip – his gaze trails up as you move. The shadow of a smirk plays at your lips. "Why? Not interested?"

His brows furrow, and the way you can see them shift under his blindfold is endearing. He crosses his arms and huffs. "Ugh... Not not interested... But here I was, thinking you had more grace than to tell me about all the pretty noble sons you've bedded. Big faux pas, bee-tee-dubs. Don't talk about exes with a potential partner. Bragging about how many side pieces you've had no longer gets people swooning – we value loyalty these days."

"Hm. I'll keep that in mind." You tilt your head, gazing at him in a way that makes him wonder if he truly is impenetrable. Your voice softens. "The way I could listen to you speak for days on end..." You trail off, then chuckle, dragged back to the present by the shift of his thighs against yours. "Satoru, I think your teachings deserve gratitude. May I?"

His breath hitches as you bring your hand up to his cheek, teasing his Infinity. Despite the barrier, he still shivers, haunted by your closeness – he can see the flecks of colour in your eyes, count every eyelash. His fist tangles in the front of your traditional wear.

He doesn't say a word. Just grabs your collar, drags you down, and smashes his lips against yours.

He's warmer than you imagined, you think as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Perhaps you were being too judgemental – his snowy hair and sky-blue eyes lent themselves to a wintry palette, and some instinctual part of you thought he'd feel the same.

He pulls back to breathe, panting softly against your lips. His fists loosen as he lifts his head, tongue darting out over his lower lip as if savouring the taste of you.

"You lowered your Infinity," you say, unable to mask the surprise in your voice. "Why?"

"I can't kiss you if it's up. Obviously."

"You trust me enough for that?" A delighted smile brightens your face. "If I had a heart, it would be racing, Satoru."

The tightness in his chest feels dangerously like affection. He swallows, pulling away with his pulse pounding in his ears.

"You should probably go," he sighs eventually, glancing aside. "It wouldn't do us any good if people found out you were crashing at my place." He hesitates. "Thanks for buying me that drink. Wish I could return the favour."

You tilt your head with a soft smile. "You're welcome. Will I see you again, Satoru?"

After a moment's thought, Satoru leans in and presses a lingering kiss to your lips, tracing your jawline and cupping your cheek. He parts with a soft smack, blushing slightly as you gaze at him with patient, half-lidded eyes.

"I really hope not," he whispers, dropping his hand. With one final, lasting glace, he stands and retreats into his bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click of the lock.

The message is clear. You were never here.

—

As it turns out, you are exceptionally good at not listening. Satoru stares down at you, expression dumbfounded, as you shift in the bolted-down chair, testing the chains around you. They are fortified with cursed energy. The room is dim, candlelit, and covered in the strongest paper seals available.

"YN, you... let yourself be captured? Why?"

He sounds so genuinely baffled that it brings a smile to your face. You lean back in the chair and flick your hair from your eyes with a casual toss of your head.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you, Satoru," you reply. "I wanted to see you again. I wasn't content with how our last conversation ended. This seemed to be the quickest method of reaching you."

"They almost killed you for it."

You scoff, lips curling in distaste. "They came nowhere close to that, I promise. I had that sorcerer by the throat until he promised to let me talk to you – I'm positively thrilled to be in this position, so please, rest easy. Concern doesn't suit you, especially not over a lowly curse."

Satoru eyes you behind his blindfold, calculating yet intrigued. From what he gathered from the archives, an arrogant play like this is right up your alley. If anything goes sour, you can bring out Ol' Reliable – your silver tongue – and simply talk your way out, maybe aided by a flutter of gold threads behind your back if you grow impatient. It seems to have happened before in at least one attempted assassination.

Unfortunately, Satoru is aware of your tricks.

"I'm curious," he begins, stepping closer. "You value your life over all else and won't hesitate to throw someone under the bus to protect yourself. But you know jujutsu society isn't like what it was – so why risk it all just to talk to me? For all you knew, they could have sealed you away again or just exorcised you on the spot. Regarding deals and promises, sorcerers are no longer as honourable as they once were. Consequence of modernity."

In return, you simply smile, eyes tracking his figure smoothly like a cat with prey. He comes to a stop right in front of you, legs an inch away from your knees, and stares down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his blindfolded gaze, challenging and subservient all at once.

"You're worth it," you purr, voice like silk. "You and I could do so much together... if only you stopped deferring to those ridiculous elders of yours. Even I can recognise when order and propriety do more harm than good."

His brows furrows as he places his hands in his pockets. "What do you even get out of this? What are you trying to manipulate me into?"

"Oh, Satoru, I'm not trying to manipulate you," you sigh, exasperated. "When I mentioned I wanted to be good this time, I was telling the truth. Maybe for the novelty of it, or perhaps I truly am good and virtuous and only buried myself in dirty court politics because it kept me out of sorcerer hands. I'm still working on understanding it myself. I don't particularly like humans, but I don't feel superior to them simply because I'm a cursed spirit. I know I'm better because none would, if they were me, serve as I have. However, humans created me. It's only right to extend them a certain respect – like parents."

You were more and more baffling by the day.

Satoru scratches the back of his head, lips twisting in a confused pout. "Sooo... You're like, what, a class traitor? But for curses?"

"I'm not betraying anything. I only serve myself and my own interests." You smile, gaze raking his body. "And I am currently very interested in you."

He says nothing for a long while, simply observing you as you get comfortable, pleased with yourself.

Abruptly, Satoru laughs, fanning his face dramatically as he turns away. "Oh, stop it, you! You're such a flirt. One thing you should know about me before you commit is that I'm territorial. If you want to be with me, you can't traipse off to meet those curses I helped you find – never ever, understand? Or I'll have to break things off and things will get ugly. 'Broken-plates-and-cops-called' kind of ugly."

His voice is flippant and teasing, but the warning beneath it is crystal clear. He's allowing you to indulge in him – he won't hesitate to bring you down if you so much as think about jumping the line.

Luckily, Satoru is far more interesting than Mahito. Stronger, too. Just your type.

"I understand," you reply, watching as he swaggers closer and leans down, resting a palm against the back of your chair. "Does this change our relationship to one of equals, Satoru? Or, at least, as close as you'll allow me to be. I am only a simple spirit, as you know well."

He stares down at you, scrutinising. Then he grins. "Ha! Whatever, sure. I like my men humble – and if you talk me up, that's a bonus."

"Unfortunately, I'm not so humble as to accept my position in these chains. Would you release me?"

He wanders in a slow circle around your chair, trailing his fingers over your shoulders. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, gazing at you with the hint of a smirk. "Hm... But you look so nice in them. It'd be a waste to destroy them that quick."

"Oh, dear – what a poor unfortunate soul I am, then," you husk, feeling his cursed energy crackle dangerously close to your throat, not quite breaking skin. "I am at your complete," his fingers brush your jaw, "and total," he grabs your hair and yanks, forcing your gaze up, "mercy."

You smirk up at him, tongue darting out to wet your lips. You twist your wrists against the chains.

"Say that again," he murmurs.

"Which part?" You bat your lashes at him. "Mercy?"

His grip tightens in your hair.

You suck in a breath, expression tightening in either pain or pleasure. He supposes it's all the same to you. You settle down again in your chair, legs shifting, and your smile widens as you feel his cursed energy wash over you. He's checking the room and the area around it.

"Find anything?" you hum, feeling him remove your kanzashi. "Be careful with that, please. It's bespoke."

He sets it aside on a small square table pushed up in the corner. "There are two sorcerers outside this door," he replies, tilting his head in its direction. "And one at the end of the hall. How much do you value your privacy?"

"More than the average human would, I'd wager. I'm quite traditional, you understand."

"I do." He turns, pulling his blindfold down. He opens breathtakingly brilliant blue eyes, and lifts one hand. He crosses his fingers.

"Domain expansion." His lips barely move, pulled into a smile. "Unlimited Void."

You think you're going to die.

Perhaps you miscalculated. Perhaps you got greedy. You can only rely on your looks and charisma to get so far, and Satoru isn't like the nobles you used to toy with.

Those victories made you confident – too confident. The corners of your lips turn down into a slight pout. Well, at least you'll finally be able to tell if those sorcerers who sealed you were correct – they feared your death would suspend the souls of every living thing indefinitely, cleaving them from their bodies. You'd been on the verge of dying exactly once – when you were very, very young – and it shredded every soul in a growing radius until they hastily set you free.

You liked the idea that you might be the only thing holding them together – it made you vital to their survival despite their hatred of you, and it did nothing for your ego.

The chair crumbles like ash beneath you and the seals burn away as easily as tissues. You collapse, your loosened hair falling over your eyes, and the deep velvet of space and knowledge stretches infinitely before you. Dancing around you are swirls of gold and blue and purple and white, every galaxy containing multitudes of memories that rush into your head relentlessly like a broken dam.

A cool hand lifts your chin, and your mind untangles as if swept clear by a soft breeze. Satoru presses his lips against yours.

You gasp as he pushes you to the floor – or what passes as it – and he throws one leg over your hips, his hands gliding up your arms to pin your wrists above your head. His lips move hungrily against yours and you groan his name as he loosens your clothes with expert precision.

"This – what is this?" You shudder as he leans down and kisses your bare chest, licking a hot stripe up the cleave of your pectorals.

"Insurance," he replies with a lopsided grin, kissing lower and lower. "It'd be real embarrassing to die with your dick out, yeah? So don't do anything silly."

Your throat bobs harshly as he laps at your stomach, tracing the muscles and unwrapping the layers of silk garb as if you're a piece of candy. When he pulls your cock out, he moans, back arching as he stares down at it in his hand, eyes wide and delighted.

"Don't worry," he hums, spitting on his palm and stroking your length from tip to root. "Nobody will hear a thing. It's the perfect soundproofing – aren't I so smart?"

"You're mad," you breathe, voice trembling ever so slightly. You're still recovering from his domain – the taste of his power is intoxicating. Satoru's grin only widens.

"Oops," he says charmingly, and presses your length flat against his stomach. He measures it, giggling to himself as he tugs off his clothes. "Wow, you're big! I was hoping you would be, but this is something else... Actually, why do you have a dick?" he asks with a curious pout, tapping his lips as he polishes your tip with his thumb and swipes the slit. "Can you have babies? Do you have even have genes and chromosomes? Like, what's it for?"

"It's for whores like you," you retort, your hands remaining above your head where he left them. "A survival adaptation to keep your hands off my throat."

He chuckles, shimmying down until he can press a kiss to your shaft. He licks it with a soft moan, blinking slowly up at you through his thick lashes as his tongue swipes over the tip. "You're lucky you're cute. I don't normally let people call me a whore, but I guess you really are the exception."

"Is it an insult if it's true? Look at you, lapping me up like a little bitch. All that strength, just to sit at my feet with my cock in your mouth... What would your superiors think if they knew their most powerful asset can be swayed by simple lust?" You prop yourself up on an elbow, staring down your nose at him. You spread your thighs and he chuckles, pressing his nose to the junction between your thigh and torso. He breathes in deep and his eyes flutter shut, a long moan reverberating at the base of his chest.

"You're so cocky! Shockingly dirty-mouthed, too," he drawls. He kisses your shaft and grins, lopsided. "But fuck, you smell good."

Satoru's lips part and he closes his eyes as he swallows your cock, tongue poking out and curling against the veins on the underside. He rubs the tip with his fingerpad, smearing the precome along the tapered tip; he giggles slightly, nibbling on his lower lip as he gazes at the beading slit.

"Wonder how this'll feel inside me," he whispers, sliding your cock between the V of his fingers and suckling on the tip with a playful string of wet kisses. "I know you haven't gotten laid in literally a thousand years, but try not to come too quick, 'kay? I wanna enjoy this before I have to exorcise you."

"Oh, but haven't you heard? The last time humans tried to kill me, I tore the souls out of everyone around me and would've taken more if they didn't stop. It wasn't by choice, mind you, but at least they died quickly."

He huffs as he sits up and plants himself on your lap, messily kicking off his trousers. It seems as if your warning did nothing to dampen his arousal. If anything, he appears more excited.

"Tore them out, huh?" He wraps his arms around your shoulders and wiggles to get comfortable, his bulge grinding against yours purposely. "Where'd they go after that?"

"You're dangerously interested in my technique, Satoru," you murmur, dipping your head to brush your lips against his. He leans in to finish the kiss, moaning softly as he rocks himself down on your lap. Your silk robes lay puddled around you, hanging from your forearms as your hands slide under his top. "My death could spell the end of every human in the country – perhaps more. Are you really willing to test that, all for a world that doesn't care for who you are or what you've sacrificed?"

"I don't do it for the fame," he whispers. He shimmies his briefs off and reaches down to stroke your cock, placing it at his hole – tight, warm, hungry. "I do it because it's right."

"Are you doing this because it's right?" You cup his ass and spread his cheeks, your tip slipping past his tight rim. He whimpers slightly, jolting forward. "Are you, Satoru?"

He gasps as he sinks down on your length, nails digging into your skin as he works his way down inch by inch. He bounces shallowly, cheeks red with heat and want. "Stop that. You said you weren't trying to manipulate me."

"It's only a question, darling."

Shuddering, he squeezes his eyes shut and shoves you to the ground, wrapping his hands around your neck. Your pupils blow wide as he slams his hips down onto your cock, swallowing the whole thing in one solid motion. Your head tips back and a sharp, drawled groan escapes your lips as his wet, tender walls hug your dick, flexing and squeezing irregularly as he grows accustomed to your size.

He places a shaky hand on his stomach, feeling the bulge move against his palm whenever he does. He can feel it shift inside him with every breath, thick and deep and hot. The tapered head of your cock glides against his deepest places whenever his ass meets your thighs – you slick him up with an unholy amount of precome, and he shudders.

"Stop chatting," he pants, "and jus' let me fuck you."

You smile up at him despite the hands around your throat. You drop your arms, grabbing his waist, and you groan freely as he rides you, rough and impatiently needy.

"Or what?" you taunt. "I'm of no use to you dead."

He leans in, eyes dark and lidded with desire. "I don't have to kill you to punish you," he whispers, rolling his hips sinfully. He laughs wildly, breathlessly. "A-Ah, shit – bet you just feel so proud, huh? You and your pretty face, your pretty words... I don't even want to kill you anymore. You're too much fun. D'you know how dangerous that is?"

"Perhaps we should find out," you murmur, voice smooth and tantalising. Even in his own domain, a place where he should have total control, your words caress his ears and sink into his brain like fingers into jelly. You're like a drug, every word another hit. He shudders as you kiss his neck, sharp teeth grazing his jugular. "You and me, a time and place. Somewhere open. Don't worry, Satoru – I will stay with you even if you lose."

Satoru kisses you messily, short and hot and with clashing tongues. His hands caress your jaw and cup the back of your head, gently pulling you into his sweet breath.

"You aren't stronger than me," he breathes, grinning as he pants and bounces harder in your lap. His Six Eyes are trained on you, tracking every twitch and pulse of pleasure. He traces your warm lips. "Such a silly kitty."

In response, you nip at his fingers with your canines – he tugs his hand back with a playfully frightened gasp, but not without giggling and diving in for more kisses. He seems to like them, the way you lean roughly into him in a push for dominance.

You would rather die than say this aloud, but you don't mind if he wins. Satoru is gorgeous, powerful, and knows what he wants – you do not mind serving a master with such... conviction. And if this master allows you to indulge in his strong, lithe body, allows you to feast on him like a beast without trying to shackle you, then you have found no greater purpose.

"Satoru," you purr, his name like a prayer. Your hands move to his hips, resting on the cusp of his ass, and he shivers and moans as you trail your fingers up and down his spine. "Oh, Satoru..."

His teeth sink into his lower lip, quivering at the way his name curls in your mouth, taut with bliss. He can feel you inside him, throbbing hot and achy and far thicker than any human. You push his hips down, quickening his pace for him, and he can't bring himself to care. It feels too good. He curls his arms around your head, tugging your into the nook under his chin. His white lashes flutter as his head tips back, a drunken, bitten smile tugging at his plump  lips.

Your lidded gaze trails down his body, the smooth ridges of his toned torso deliciously smooth and sweet. He shudders and moans as your tongue trails down his neck to his pebbled, blush-pink nipple, your lips wrapping around it and sucking lightly. His back arches as his fingers twist in the baby hairs at the nape of your neck, his rocking hips growing sloppy and rough.

"How could you ever win when you unravel so easily for me, little dove?" you murmur, tongue circling his perky bud. He lets out a soft groan, sweetened by a pout – somewhere between pleasure and petulance.

He tugs your hair, making you pop off with a wet suck, then pushes you to the other side of his chest like the brat he is. You smirk, canines peeking out, and obediently lower your head to his chest. His hips stutter as your hand pinches and rolls his other hard, wet bud between his fingers. You flick it at the same time you give a hard suck and he whimpers, chest arching against your mouth. Dragging a rough hand through his hair, he moans, his fingers fluttering over your bicep as he twitches on your lap.

"Mmh – I'm letting you do this, so shut up! 'S not my fault that I have pretty moans 'n' like it messy," he whines, a particularly delicious grind of his ass making an involuntary groan hiss through your teeth. "I wanna come just as much as you want me to, so 'm not gonna hold it 'n' blueball myself. 'S hard to, anyway, with the fucking size of this thing." He simpers, reaching down to stroke your thick base – he gasps in shaky awe as the slick heat of it swells under his touch. "W-What – oh my god, are you getting bigger?"

"Do I taste nervousness, Satoru? Am I too much for you to handle?" You nip at his throat near his prominent Adam's apple, ensuring he can't hide it with a simple upturned collar. He'll need to put in more effort. Does this categorise you as a high-maintenance lover?

"Stop that. 'Course I can handle you," he rebuts immediately, fingers gliding over the thick, pulsing heat of your cock. When he meets your eyes, they're dark with need, like an ocean in the middle of winter. He licks his lips as your nail guards dig into the dimples above his ass, his palm tight and warm around your base as he rocks shallowly on the first few inches of your cock.

He glances down at your body, fascinated. "All your fancy words and expensive clothes, and you still have a cock like an animal. What's your opinion on nature versus nurture?"

You bare your teeth at him with a growl, eyes narrowing. He does it back, showing off small blunt incisors, and giggles. He lets go of your cock and takes it in as he can, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and sinking his soft ass all the way to your base. His tight hole tenses and twitches around you.

"It's okay," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck as you prop yourself up on one hand, the other kneading his ass. "I prefer you as you are. You don't have to pretend."

"Who said I'm pretending?" You bring your palm down hard on his ass, making him jolt into your chest and mewl. His wet, oil-hot walls flutter against your dick, hugging every ridge and throbbing vein. "Just because you put on a mask every day doesn't mean I do as well." You consider him, lazily watching him bounce haphazardly on your cock without rhyme or reason. You click your tongue and roll your eyes, grabbing his waist and throwing him down onto what passes as the floor. Around him, space ripples like impermeable black water at the impact, but he doesn't break the surface.

His breath hitches as you hover over him, your strong body forcing his thighs open to accommodate you between them. His eyes are wide – watching, half-cautious – as you lean down until your hair tickles his cheeks. Your breath is hot and velvety, and against his will, his eyes flicker down to the threat of your lips. They curve into a sharp smile.

"Be a good little sorcerer and take it," you whisper, arms braced beside his head. You grind deep inside him, and he chokes on a moan, thighs trembling. "You'll be whining and crying on my cock in no time. Then you can tell me again who the real animal is."

You draw back and slam into him with an echoing slap. The meat of his ass ripples with the impact, a shocked cry yanked out of him as the thickest part of your cock shoves past his tight rim. He scrabbles against your chest, nails raking tingling lines of cursed energy down your skin, and you catch his ankle before he can kick you with a flailing leg. With dark, predatory eyes, you push his leg higher and kiss up his ankle to his knee, your scarlet tongue peeking out between your lips to taste his skin. He twitches, lips parted to gasp and pant, as you drape yourself over him and kiss him deeply.

He cries out into your mouth as you fold him in half, his calves resting over your broad shoulders. His asshole spasms around your thick cock and he whimpers with your tongue down his throat as the fat bulb of your cockhead plugs him up and stretches him wider than he ever thought possible.

"Ah, hah – mm, wait," he whines, gasping as you swallow his words and press deeper into him. Thick and heavy, your cock bulges in his flat stomach above his belly button, revealing just how deep you are – how small he is to you. Even in his domain, he's still just human, and a wicked grin stretches across your lips as all the fight and confidence seeps out of him from your cock alone.

"W-Wait," he whimpers, wide and shiny blue eyes staring up at you. They flutter shut as you interrupt his next words with a heavy kiss. "I-I'm not – mmph—!"

You grab his white hair and pin him to the ground. He gasps, one hand shooting up to grip your wrist, as you curl over him and bury your nose in his neck. Your cock drives hard and deep into him, over and over again with wet slick sounds. Somehow, sound seems to echo and get swallowed up at the same time. Satoru hiccups in an adorable little panic as your tip constantly pops past his tight puckered rim, opening him up like a flower.

"Mmh, mmph!" His spine arches, a little bridge, as you slam into his guts with the full length of your cock, making him sob and moan as his hole squelches with your precome. Despite his writhing and weak attempts at kicking you away, he doesn't stop touching you – he keeps you nice and safe within the realm of his domain, unwilling to let you go.

His own cock, largely forgotten, bounces against his stomach, dripping like a broken faucet. It curves up, dusky pink and darker at the shiny mushroom tip. He reaches down and grabs it, humping his fist, but you tut and yank his arms above his head. It makes him cry out in distress.

"You'll come from your ass or not at all," you whisper, fucking into him so hard tears prick at his fluttering eyes. "Good birdie."

He wheezes softly as you yank his hips towards you, tossing his other leg over your shoulder and gripping his unblemished alabaster thighs. Obediently, he leaves his hands right where you left them above his head – he makes no move to fight back as you take and take and take his pleasure from him, your wet cock dripping inside his silky hot hole.

A plump, blissful smile decorates his flushed expression, dumb and whorish. You lean down, this time taking both his legs with you, and lick at his lips until he turns his face to you and lets you claim his mouth, your long tongue gliding over his teeth and twisting with his tongue. Saliva drips from the corner of his mouth as you pull his face towards yours, and his expression tightens in pleasure as your tongue pushes down his throat.

His eyes roll back as you practically fuck his throat. He jolts and shudders, tears blurring his vision as he tries his best to suppress his gag reflex, but you're so insistent and demanding that he can't do anything but mindlessly accept everything you offer.

Your cock fucking his guts and your tongue claiming his throat feels impossibly good. His legs hook limply over your elbows, his balls aching and dick straining as you use him up like a toy. His hole doesn't even resist you anymore – he feels it push in and out without much fight, just a wet sucking pop every time it pulls out as if even his ass misses it. 

He feels so sinfully full from both ends. The solid slapping of your hips against his ass sounds far too loud – it's all he can think about. What does he look like, he wonders, whining and blushing and speared on a curse's fat cock?

He has a dangerous half-thought about dropping his domain and letting everyone watch him get split open by the very things they're supposed to destroy.

Satoru's cock throbs, the pleasure bubbling up from so deep that it almost hurts. His balls are tight and heavy. Jets of clear precome shoot across his stomach, dripping into the smooth ridges of his muscles. He drools as your dick ruts against his achy prostate, hot and swollen with the constant rubbing from your veiny cock.

Your thrusts quicken, rough and deep. You pull away to admire him, and he immediately protests with a whiny cry, his lips parting and his tongue lolling out before he can stop himself. With a chuckle, you lean in to kiss him and suck on his tongue, and he eagerly hooks his arms around your biceps and cries out in a sharp staccato that crescendos into a constant stream of desperate, echoing moans.

Your tongue slides wetly against his. It's so much longer and more dexterous than his, and it's all he can do to stay awake.

He buckles under the weight of your desire. He's not usually so... submissive. Fleeting curiosity always turned to disinterest no matter how many times he revisited the idea. He's the strongest, after all; it's only natural that submitting control to anything would feel strange and unnatural. But you turn everything he thought he knew upside down – he just can't get enough of you, of the heavy hand twisted in his sweat-damp hair.

You break the kiss to graze your teeth against his jugular, soft and warm. His heartbeat throbs through the delicate skin, quick like a rabbit's. One look at his expression tells you he's too far gone to care about faking his feelings. 

"Ohh, don't stop," he whines breathlessly, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and burying his face into your neck. He breathes in deeply – you smell like petrichor with a hint of something fresh and floral, as if you'd tucked a wildflower behind your ear and left it there for a day. Your sharp canines dimple his skin with the slightest pressure, and he shudders as your tongue sweeps over his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, every instinct screaming in protest as he lets his head loll to one side and offers his pretty pale skin as a canvas. "'M gonna come! Oh fuck, oh, fuck, 'm coming, don't fucking stop!"

"I won't." You smile against his milky skin, fist tightening in his hair. To Satoru, it feels like a death roll, a python's constriction. There will be nothing left of him when you are done.

He shouts your name as his back arches suddenly, his body locking up and his toes curling as he sobs and unravels. His nails cut bloody crescents into your shoulders and rake across your sides and back, his lithe body convulsing violently as your pace slows to a rough, slow fuck, every thrust accentuated with a disgustingly deep grind of your hips that has him hiccuping and spurting violent ropes of come across his stomach. Each time your thickened base pops past his rim, he can feel his walls moulding around it, hugging it tight as you carve through him mercilessly. 

His heartbeat pounds in his ears, his head buzzing. Your teeth sink into the soft meat of his shoulder, and despite his whimpers and blubbered half-words, he doesn't move to stop you. Not even when you trail your bloodied lips up, up, up – and press a lingering red kiss to the corner of his mouth. Your tongue slips between his lips and his cock jerks with a thick spurt as you offer to him the iron taste of his own blood.

"Good little birdie," you murmur, voice like velvet as your eyes slide closed – perhaps for the first time since you laid eyes on him. You tuck your head into his shoulder, your thrusts quickening and growing less restrained – you fuck him so hard his ass stings and ricochets with the contact, and you no longer have to worry about how he'll fit you. He's dripping so much come and pre that one swipe of your palm over his stomach would serve you fine for a whole night.

Your brow furrows as you drape your body over his, almost completely engulfing him until only his limbs and his fluffy white hair are visible past the bulk of your body. His feet poke up over your shoulders, his nails rake tiger stripes along your ribs, and he's got a thick creamy mess trickling down his sides. The white curls at the base of his cock are sticky and hot. You drag your golden nail guards roughly through his tangled ghost-pale hair, and Satoru sinks his teeth into his pillowy lower lip to silence the pleas that threaten to break through.

With a wanton moan that peaks high and whorish at the end, Satoru's aching thighs tremble viciously, his half-softened cock still straining to spurt what little come he has left. 

Your balls, warm and heavy, smack firmly against the swell of his reddened ass with every calculated thrust. Your gaze bores into him, using the minute changes in his expression and body language to turn him into a brainless doll that takes cock as if he were born for it.

"You're—" he giggles dreamily "—mm, you're s-sooo big... Ah—!"

You cup his chest, rolling your thumb over his peaked dusky pink nipples. His body jolts hard, unable to decide between pulling away or leaning in. Your voice is ragged and rough with lust when you speak next, a rare change from your usual velvety voice.

"I know, dove," you rasp, inhuman eyes tracking him freakishly smoothly. He swallows harshly, biting back groans that are embarrassingly needy.

Look at him, being stupid and selfish. Never in a million years would he think he'd enjoy the company of a curse outside of battle. He's a horrible person.

But you're just so… bizarre. Entertaining. You don't care for sorcerers unless they interfere with your lifestyle, and you interact with them as little as possible so you can lord happily over your herd of sheep in peace and quiet. Yet, you seek him out. Yet, you offer your services in exchange for your life.

Yet, you tell him, "Satoru, kiss me."

Without thinking, he does. You're an unfortunately good kisser and he melts into it easily, his fraying morals melting away into nothing. You kiss him as if you love him, deep and slow and soft with just the right amount of dominance that has him arching into your body.

He barely has to do anything – just lay there and take it and come his fucking brains out. It's nice to not have to think for once. He whimpers against your lips when you drop his legs and wrap them around your waist, pulling him close and cradling his head to kiss him. He gasps into your mouth, eyes fluttering as his throbbing dick drips, glazed in layers of milky white.

You growl softly, a low rumbling sound that feels good against his chest. You pull him closer, his frothy messy hole squelching with precome. You shove your face in his neck and slam straight into his hypersensitive prostate violently, making him wail and come abruptly like a truck.

"Where?" you huff out, voice low and breath hot against his jawline. Your grip tightens on his hip. "Where, birdie?"

He mumbles out a pitiful, indistinguishable sentence, unable to glue his thoughts back together. With hot palms, he pushes you away slightly and meets your shark-black gaze. The annoyed huff you exhale dies when he parts his lips and sticks out his little pink tongue, fingers pushing into his mouth as he gasps and stutters and stares pleadingly up at you. 

"Fuck."

It's the first curse word he's heard you say. He had little time to preen, however, because you pull out with a sudden rough pipe, half yanking him down with the motion as the ridges of your tip catch on his rim. He whines, jaw dropping as his hole clenches and his thighs shake, and then there's a cock stuffed in his mouth and flooding his gullet with thick, hot seed.

Satoru's eyes roll back as his nails dig into your thighs, clawing you closer. Your base presses against his plump lips and his back arches as you yank his head up towards your hips, your knees on either side of his shoulders. He jerks and drools, throat working constantly to avoid choking.

You're too big to fit completely in his jaw. Instead, he lets it rest on his tongue, the tip of it flicking against your base and curling beneath it. You grab him and wrap his hand around yourself, squeezing, and he moans around your length as he feels you pulse and throb against his fingers. Every throb sends a deluge of come down his throat. He can barely swallow it fast enough, gasping and panting between wet slurps as he jerks off what he can't suck.

With a low groan of pleasure, you press down into him, and his legs kick out as you fuck his throat. Your hand twists in his hair, keeping him still.

"You're doing so well, pretty thing," you coo, and he whimpers as his cock jumps against his stomach. You stare down at him with a soft smile, almost loving, before fisting his hair and crushing your cock down his throat. Your head tips back as Satoru gags, choking wetly, and he can barely breathe, saliva and come dripping down the corners of his mouth and down his chin in filthy sticky strings.

His hips jerk. He comes again, completely untouched, and you laugh cruelly when you notice it, making him flush three shades darker as he squirms and thrusts up into nothing.

Finally, when he sags to the ground and struggles to keep his throat from convulsing around you, you let him go, dragging your spit-slick cock past his lips. He gasps and coughs, expression flushed and hair a mess, and lazily thrusts his hips up into your palm as you stroke him and let him come all over your fist. You lean down to kiss him, and he moans as you scoop the remnants of your own come onto your tongue.

Right, you've got an ego problem. Of course you'd like the taste of yourself – which, Satoru admits, is the perfect mix of salty and sweet.

You part with a slick smack of lips, and Satoru stares up at you with lidded eyes and a fat, blissful smile, chest heaving as he catches his breath. You don't need to do the same, but you stay quiet regardless, one of your hands cupping his head for support as he leans towards you with a raspy chuckle.

"Dumbest idea ever," he whispers, his hole twitching and clenching around nothing. He reaches down to circle his rim, gaping and unable to close. He licks his lips. "Shame that I hafta kill you."

"You won't." Your eyes narrow.

"I will," he counters. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his embrace, and his domain dissolves around you and disappears into the corners of the room. "Just... maybe later."

You chuckle, hands travelling over the curves of his body to trace the marks you've left behind. "Then I still have time to change your mind. I will kneel for you," you murmur, and he tilts his head with a pleased, cocky grin. "I have been told I look wonderful on my knees."

"I could see that," he whispers, giggling as you lift a golden pendant over your head and place it around his neck. He grabs your wrist before you can pull away, tugging you closer as he leans in, smile coy. "Maybe you should show me so I can make sure you're telling the truth, politician. Would be a shame to only appreciate it once, yeah?"

"Only if you promise to stay quiet," you hum, watching as he plays with the necklace newly resting against his chest. "Not just anyone is allowed to see me that way."

His face splits into a giddy grin as you lift him off your lap and hover over him on your knees, your loosened hair falling around your shoulders and shadowing your eyes.

"No promises," he whispers as he grabs the heavy gold pendant, round and flat with an insignia carved into it which he doesn't recognise. His cock twitches in anticipation as you press a kiss to his inner thigh, lips curved into a smug grin. "Guess you'll just have to shut me up, huh?"

"That is easier said than done," you scoff, leaning down to take his cock into your mouth. His giggles peter off into a string of low moans as you take him easily to the root, your mouth hot and wet as you hollow your cheeks and suck hard.

He cries out, hips jolting, and slaps a hand over his mouth. You look up at him through your lashes, amusement dancing in your gaze; Satoru almost comes right there at the sight.

Oh, damn it all, he thinks as his head tips back, your obscenely long tongue gliding along his veins and curling around his tight, aching balls. Saliva drips down his taint and he moans into his palm, thighs tensing around your head.

Ugh. He watches through unfocussed eyes as your head bobs between his trembling thighs, your hot tongue curling around his length and stroking him together with the silky heat of your lips. He really doesn't want to kill you.